Bonds of Old
by cakeisnotpie
Summary: In the Midlands, all is not well. The King is weak and under the spell of Prince Loki of Asgard. It's up to the Warlords and their Thanes to protect the kingdom. Thane Philip Coulson runs Lord Fury's holding, but he never expects to find himself married to Lord Clinton Barton as part of a plan to thwart Loki's yet unknown scheme. Part 1 of the Medieval 'Vengers Verse
1. Prologue

After, there was little left to do but survive. The peoples dwindled down to few and fewer, huddled in their caves and places of safety, until finally they emerged, settling in the fertile land that remained in small, tight knit communities. Hamlets became villages and villages changed to towns; towns needed governing and those with skills and knowledge stepped forward. Dangers surrounded them – storms, harsh winters, wolves, petty jealousy – but they persevered, building a new life for themselves and their children.

But the fallout changed all, the people, the animals, and the land. The first to be born were the monsters of myth and legend that came from the depths of the earth, the bottom of the ocean, and the heights of the mountains. Dragons took to the skies, krakens harried the coasts, and misshapen creatures crept out of caverns. Worst of all were those who wore the form of men with naught but blackness in their souls, women who wove symbols with their fingers and called spells forth from their will alone. Black magic swept across the settled lands, and the worst of all were the Sorcerers, men and women of such power that they were no longer human, twisted and depraved in their desires. Those who resisted fell before the onslaught; those who surrendered lived in constant fear. It was the start of the First New Age, the Time of Darkness.

But magic is neither good nor evil, and so too did men with great strength emerge, brilliant women who could strategize, those who could heal, could build, could change, and could fly. Wizards and knights, archers and swordsmen, statesmen and spies, they faced the challenge and stood between the people and the shadows. Battle became the reality of life, the strongest leaders gathered the best and brightest around them, named them thanes, and thus were the Warlords born. People raised walls, moved inside them, and huddled behind the lines for the protection the Warlords could offer. In smaller holdings, firstborns still inherited, but as the Warlords grew in power, they began to choose their heirs from the children born with special talents, raised and trained to work together for the good of the land. From the Warlords came power of the King and to the King they owed their allegiance. Age-old traditions gave way in the face of need; prejudices fell away. There was no time to think of color of skin or shape of bodies or choice of lovers. There was only the struggle to stay alive.

And then among the Warlords and Thanes appeared the bonded, pairs of great heroes who changed the course of history. Separate, they were formidable foes; together, they could stand against immense numbers, even a Sorcerer. At the height of the Age, the greatest of these were Steven, Lord Rogers, and Thane Barnes. With their companions, they pushed back the enemies, forcing them to retreat to the depths and the desert, to the mountains and the barren waste. Years it took, and the cost was great; Barnes fell first into the dark pits between the peaks, and the mourning was great, for part of Steven's very soul fell with him. Yet, even greater were the cries of anguish when, in the final hours, Lord Rogers was lost beneath the icy waves of the ocean. Their sacrifice freed the entire land from the dark cloud that choked it, and, in respect, King Phillips created the title of Paladin to be the kingdom's champion, the greatest of all thanes with unerring moral strength and determination.

But now, another ruined land needed to be rebuilt, and years, decades, and centuries passed. The Warlords became Lords, but the honor of being chosen remained. The title of Thane became an honor, and chosen heirs were as plentiful as familial titles. New enemies, the human kind, harassed the kingdom, and slowly the memory of magic faded. Sorcerers became characters in children's stories, dragons images drawn by artists, and bonded pairs relegated to the domain of romantic stories sung by bards in bowers and halls. Humans multiplied, kings and queens came and went, and the people thrived. The Second New Age, a time of prosperity and growth, lengthened … and people forgot.

Until the Third New Age, the Time of Heroes, began. This is the story of those men and women who rose to the challenge of an even greater threat. Because, as we all know, magic never truly goes away …


	2. An Unexpected Alliance

A"Is he coming today?" Peter asked for the twenty-third time since noon meal. Patience was never his long suit and right now his boundless energy was making it difficult to sit still in the hard chair. He was supposed to working on his history, but at sixteen he'd much rather be on the practice field than trapped inside, reading musty old tomes about the Children's War.

"Today or tomorrow." Philip answered without looking up from the ledger he was filling with careful, tiny lines of inked numbers that had to add up at the bottom of the page. Accounts were his least favorite job, but it was the most important to get right. Lord Fury wasn't a man who suffered fools easily, and he'd put his trust in Philip when he'd made him the Overseer of Mons Tueor. Lands, manors, people … all fell under Philip's purview. His talent lay in organization, using the knowledge he found in old tomes and musty libraries to ensure those who looked to Lord Fury for protection had the chance not just to survive, but to flourish. Tenants who ate enough worked harder, soldiers who shared the wealth of conquest fought harder, and thanes given opportunities became more skilled.

"Should I bathe now? If he arrives before dinner, I might have time to ask him and I should look my best, don't you think?" Peter was standing now, pacing from bookshelf to bookshelf, not even pausing to glance out the window. Usually, he sat on the pillows where he could see the northern most edge of the training area; this time of day, Master Quartermain had the guard running drills. Like most young men, he had dreams of being a knight, maybe even becoming the King's Paladin one day. But Peter was different; his talent had manifested at a young age, and his intelligence made him the ridicule of all his peers. Even adults of his town shunned him, a sad truth about the chosen. Only among others who understood, knew the isolation of being unique, could they find acceptance.

"Peter." Philip sighed and carefully tucked his quill into the hole in the desk to avoid any stray ink falling on the precious vellum. "We have spoken of this before. You know my feelings on the matter and my advice. It's time to make your own decisions; you'll soon be invested with your own position."

"Philip, you know Nick the Furious thinks I'm still too young to know what I want. I'm sure he'll say no. Then what do I do?" His voice was verging too close to begging; as an heir to the largest holding in all the Midlands, Peter had to learn that Tarians never begged, nor did they whine. In answer, Philip simply stared, staying silent. Soon Peter's footsteps faltered and he dropped into his chair, ducking his head and going back to pretending to study. With the slightest shake of his head, Philip went back to work, reading through the various papers and transferring the information into the larger ledger. They were losing too many sheep to an overpopulation of wolves near the border with Stark's lands and the Mill at Dugan's Creek was underperforming again. Time for a surprise visit; he penciled in a notation to add that stop to his planned trip over the plateau.

Those were small annoyances. Overall, Tueor was thriving, according to the numbers in front of Philip. He liked he had a hand in that, could return the years of support that his Lord had given him. He'd heard the stories of other thanes pressed into service in the guard, even the most bookish given a sword and forced to fight. Not Philip; Philip had been chosen by Lord Stoner, taken from the small home he and his mother had been reduced to after his father's death and brought to Tarian Castle where he met Nicholas Fury, the man who would become his friend and the next Lord of Tueor. Within six months, Philip began to train separately from the main guard; he was given unlimited access to the libraries of all the manors and quickly became skilled in unique forms of combat more suited to his new role. On his 18th birthday, his gift had been the keys to Coul Hall, his father's ancestral home. In two years he'd made the small manor and surrounding lands profitable again, fixing years of neglect. Since then, he'd taken on more and more responsibility, proving over again that the trust he'd been given had not been misplaced. Now, at 28, he was in charge of the whole, and he took his job very seriously. Many called Philip Nicolas's left hand – the right was reserved for Maria Hill, chosen only a year after Philip. The two had trained together, and now Maria was the Head of all of Tueor's guard.

The clatter of hooves on the cobblestones made Peter perk up; Philip sighed and nodded. There was no way he could keep Peter's attention now. "Go. Meet them," he said. He'd have to go as well, but not before he sprinkled sand on the page to set the ink, leaving it open to dry. Pushing back the heavy wooden chair, he felt the familiar ache in his fingers, and he clenched his hands into a fist, willing away the bone deep throb. All in his head, that's what the clerics told him. This was nothing but phantom pain from too many days spent clutching a quill and bending over books as they dragged out ancient tomes to back up their claims. But Phil had read more than they had, Tarian's library far more expansive than the largest of the monasteries. Knowledge was power; unfortunately, many believed the Men of Letters who taught that the distant past was dangerous, to be avoided. In one of the oldest books, pages cracking with age, he'd read of those like Maria and Peter and the others, people with abilities and, yes, even magic. The word made a charge spark between his fingers and the ledger; soon, he'd need to find a way to bleed it off, run out the energy before he hurt someone, but for now, he needed to greet the returning party.

As he left the room, the household bustled, and he was proud to see the way the stones gleamed from washing, and the hearth scrubbed free of ash and smoke, the fire burning efficiently under the stone arch. He'd just had the tapestries depicting the tale of the first Lord of Tarian's great battle against the Hydra restored with vibrant colors, and they hung now in places of honor in the entryway. From the smells wafting through the corridors, fresh bread was cooling and the slabs of beef were roasting. All was prepared. He arrived at the right moment, just as the entourage pulled to a halt in front of the long flight of stone steps that lead to the main doors. A moment of relief flowed through him to see them all hale and hearty; the roads were dangerous, growing more so lately with the Red Knight encroaching across the river and Tarleton harrying them from the West. Even their own court was full of plots, ambassadors vying for influence, and King Donaldson was weak; he was the least of his brothers, too willing to be led rather than lead.

"Philip." Maria swung down from her horse, handing off the reigns to a groom. "I hope you've got May working on one of her wonderful meals. Too many days on the road with hardtack; I've been dreaming of her cherry tarts and waking up hungry."

"Oh, come now, I now you like jerky," Philip joked as he watched them all for telltale signs of trouble. Maria's dark eyes were ringed by shadows, her traveling gear at least three days gone with wear and slept in. Petite and slim, Maria might pass for a lady of the court, if she ever wore a dress or knew how to sew a stitch. No, Maria's gift wasn't in the arts or home, she was a great leader, a brilliant strategist and a fighter of excellence. Few would argue with her battle plans and even less would dare call her a lady to her face.

Lord Fury swung his leather clad leg over the saddle and dismounted, his long leather coat split in the back for riding. His dark skin made the signs of his exhaustion harder to see, but Philip had long ago learned to read his benefactor and friend. He was favoring his left knee as he dismounted and made his way up the stairs. Tired. Worried. Something had happened at court. Philip grounded the spark that slipped from his forefinger into the hilt of his dagger, letting the metal carry the heat away. "There are baths awaiting and I saw a side of beef with May's special sauce. And a new pastry to try, something she called a dough circle. Smacked my hand when I tried to steal one."

"Hot water." Maria smiled at him, the dirt of the road shading her cheeks and forehead. "I could scrub for days."

"As always, good job, Philip," Nicolas clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "My study in thirty. We've much to discuss."

Maria winced, bath becoming a quick wash and change now; she followed Lord Fury into the hall. There was bad news, Philip knew, and no time to waste. He saw the grooms off to the stables with the horses, gave orders for the belongings to be brought up, and spoke to the other knights and guard, ensuring they had food and comforts after the journey. As he hurried back inside, something heavy and hard settled in his chest, the bloom of worry taking his breath away. His leather jerkin couldn't protect him from the charge that sizzled up his arm, nowhere to go but into the skin beneath. There was time for a detour to the armory where the whetstone was already scarred with blackened slashes burned in the shape of a human hand. Better exhausted than bristling and on edge.

…..

"The King is enamored of this new visitor." Nicolas stalked around the chamber, ignoring the warmth of the fire in his need to pace. "I can hardly make him listen to me. He banned me from his chambers because he said I was a harbinger of gloom."

Maria was seated next to him; Philip listened quietly, understanding the anger behind the furrowed brow. The cycle had begun again; the King chose a favorite, seduced by bright eyes, smooth lies, and lips that told him what he wanted to hear. Lavish gifts would follow, then positions of authority, titles, other people's lands given to the favorite's family and friends. Soon, the new one would flex his muscles, pushing for his own agenda, capturing the King's ear. The last had been Lady Frost; she'd ruled court with her icy demeanor, cutting off those who had supported the King's father, replacing them with younger nobles who followed her every word. The King had dressed her in diamonds and made her the largest landowner in the country. Her fall had been swift; as easily as a favorite rose, so too did they come to an end. The true power of the country lay in the noble houses and the Lords who ran them. Wise Kings courted them; foolish ones did not last long.

"The infatuation won't last." Maria was right. As soon as the King needed them, he'd come groveling back to his Lords. "Prince Loki may be more skilled at manipulation than the others, but the King will lose interest eventually."

"Loki has plans within plans, mark my word." Nicolas finally sat, leather coat splaying out around him. "I have a feeling that this first feint is just to lull us into placidity."

"An Asgardian plot?" Maria asked. Of all their allies, the Kingdom of Asgard was both the most mysterious and the most long-standing. Few people visited and King Odin made no secret of his belief that the problems of the Midlands weren't his troubles. Yet, they had never actively been aggressive, sometimes sharing knowledge and aid.

"Our woman inside Odin's court says that this position was a kind of punishment for the prodigal heir. He's a silver tongued devil who enjoys stirring trouble," Nicolas said.

"So daddy sent him here?" Maria snorted and poured a glass of wine for Nicolas first then herself second. Philip shook his head no when she offered. "Odin thinks highly of us, it seems."

"I dare say Odin simply does not think of us at all." Philip had studied the history of their neighbors. "If Loki is plotting, I would imagine he is working with another faction within the court or …"

"Indeed." Fury agreed. They didn't need to speak their fears out loud; after too many nights of speculations with only innuendo and rumor to work from, facts remained elusive. And yet, they were convinced another power was in play, moving behind the scenes. Reports of attacks on the outlying holdings, farmers telling of misshaped men who carried unusual weapons, and beasts in the night that ripped animals to shreds and stole children from their beds. Skirmishes on the border with the Red Knight's forces that came immediately upon the heels of forays by Tarleton's yellow clad warriors. The room quieted, Nicolas staring into the flames as if looking for answers. Philip looked askance at Maria; her eyes widened and she gave a tiny shake of her head. She didn't know either, but Nicolas's worry was obvious.

"Tell us," she encouraged. "We cannot plan until we know."

With a sigh, Nicholas spoke. "Prince Loki has asked the King to make an alliance with his royal house of Asgard. He has offered aid in our fight against the Red Knight."

"This seems a good thing," Philip said, caution making him chose his words carefully. Anything suggested by Loki was to be suspected. "Assuming Loki can deliver on his promise. They have never offered military help before."

"True, but that is the least of our worries. As the King has no heirs, he has chosen my house for the honor." Fury swirled the wine in his glass, and Phil knew the news was only going to get worse.

"Milord, I will, of course, do my duty." Maria's eyes darted to Philip; she was the oldest female heir and thus the logical choice despite the knowledge that she was indispensable as the leader of Fury's armies. Still, he was probably one of the only people who knew her heart on the matter, knew how much an alliance would cost her in matters of the heart.

"It's not you, Maria," Nicholas said with a slight smile as if amused by the thought of the aloof Prince meeting her. She couldn't hide the way her shoulders sagged with relief.

"Darcy is barely sixteen." Philip couldn't imagine Lord Nicholas agreeing to send the vibrant young woman into an arranged marriage. He also spared the Asgardians a quick jolt of sympathy if such a union took place; Darcy would be running the court in a matter of weeks. "If the proffered husband is young himself, perhaps a lengthy engagement?"

"It is Prince Loki who offers his hand," Nicholas looked directly into Phil's eyes. "And he has asked for you."

The lump in his throat stopped his breath, and he felt the energy rise so quickly he couldn't contain it. Books blew off the table, a chair flew across the room to clatter against the stone wall, and the fire sputtered, showering sparks onto the hearth. He clamped down on his emotions, turning the flow back on himself, letting it burn inside of his chest.

"No." The word changed as the sound passed his lips, weighted down with command. Maria snapped up straight in her chair, hands curling around the arms, and Nicholas's head turned. Philip's thoughts turned to books, words running through his mind's eye - a line of poetry, a mathematical formula, a verse of an old hymn.

"No." Phil repeated, taking a deep breath to slow his heart down. Minutes passed before he felt he could speak normally again. "I'm sorry. Of course, if you deem the match necessary, I will do as you command."

"It could be good for you, Phil," Nicolas said quietly. "Our contact is convinced Queen Freya has abilities and Loki may as well; the Asgardians may be more open and accepting."

Ability. That was the common term for it. Philip's earliest memories were of his parents teaching him to hide what he could do to avoid suspicion. No one ever uttered the word magic, too scared of the Men of Letters and their condemnation to even whisper the possibility. That was the stuff of legends, those old tales told to children. Magic wasn't real.

"And I could report what I learn back to you." Part of being an heir was forming alliances; they all knew the day might come when they were called upon to make an advantageous marriage. But Philip had become complacent over the last few years as he grew older, too busy with his studies and his work to think about the possibility. To imagine that Loki would pick him, a scholar and a clerk as much as anything else, didn't make sense.

"Yes, that's true. I imagine you'd be an expert on Asgard within a few years." Nicholas, as ever, kept his face impassive in the way that served him well at court. "And I must say that Prince Loki is handsome. Charming too, don't you agree, Maria?"

"Tall, slim, dark-haired." Maria didn't have as stony as face as Nicholas; her dislike of the prince was evident. "Arrogant with an ego the size of the ocean. Oily and too good with words. But many young men and ladies of court speak highly of his sexual prowess. Two and three at a time …"

Philip's face flushed at the thought; given his own lack of experience just the mention of the marital bed gave him pause. At heart, he was an idealist, holding out for a love match; few knew how much he enjoyed the tales of the bonded, but he convinced himself he was happy with his life the way it was. He hadn't had time for a relationship in the last few years, and he could honestly say he had not been upset when his earlier attempts had ended without so much as a moment of upset.

"How long would I have?" Calculations unspooled in Philip's head. "I have to make adjustments and find a replacement …" He spun to a halt. "You have no intention of such a match," he accused Nicolas. "Odds are, Loki hopes to gain information about our strengths and weaknesses and who better to know? He believes he can seduce me into telling him, expecting I'll be glad for his attention since I'm old and on the shelf."

"Not to mention that your absence would weaken the whole structure of the holding," Maria added. "And you are neither old nor on the shelf. You are quite handsome, and many have set their cap for you. You are just terribly choosey."

"Thank you." He returned her smile; he could count on her to cheer him up even if he didn't really believe her words. His hair was already starting to thin and he needed lenses to focus on some pages of script. "But how are we to avoid the King's directive? If he wishes a marriage, he will have one."

"Ah, yes, well it seems I have yet to receive the official writ. We had to leave so suddenly after the news of the accident at Cage House that the King's message didn't get delivered. Thankfully you handled that with your usual efficiency. I'm sure the messenger will get re-directed here eventually." Nicolas did so enjoy the clandestine parts of his job. "Three days at the most before we must deal with the King. Too bad I've already made a contract with another party that takes precedence."

"What?" Maria demanded.

"What?" Philip asked at the exact same moment. Lord Nicolas always played his hand close to his vest, but to agree to an engagement without telling them? It took a second for the answer to come to Philip. "One of your contingency plans, I take it?"

"Indeed." Nicolas responded, settling back and steepling his fingers in front of his face. "What do you know of Barton Manor?"

"That tiny holding?" Maria was even more surprised. "They applied to you for protection two years ago; an attack left them Lordless and in dire straits, if I remember correctly."

Lord Nicolas raised his eyebrow, encouraging him to provide the information he had. Philip was never sure if this was a test of his talents or Nicolas letting someone else do the research so he didn't have to.

"Barton Manor, formerly Frasier Hall. On the border between the Midlands and the Hills of Argoth. Fairly wealthy until Edith Fraiser, only heir, married Harold Barton; Lord Barton was a man who relied upon violence and intimidation to rule. Two sons … Charles and ... Clinton." He had to drag the names out of his memory. "Lady Barton's life ended in a suspicious fall, and Lord Barton died from exposure. Riding home drunk, he fell from his horse one winter night." Standing, Philip crossed to the bookshelves and pulled down a recent set of maps; laying it open on the table, he pointed out the location. "Lord Charles wasn't much better, but then the disappearances began, farms furthest out feeling the brunt, culminating in the raid two years ago. Eyewitnesses reported soldiers who weren't men but skeletons with little flesh led by a tall man in a green cloak and golden helm." The stories had been catalogued and added to the growing stack of unexplained events. "The manor house was partially destroyed, many of the long-term retainers killed, and Lord Charles disappeared."

"What of the other son?" Maria asked.

"Left just after his mother passed to seek his fortune elsewhere." It was a common story of second sons, especially of smaller holdings. There was plenty of fame and gold to be had fighting in various disputes and wars. If Philip had learned one thing in his studies, it was that humans always found ways to hurt each other over the smallest of differences. "Probably so far away, he hasn't heard the news …" And that's when he understood Lord Nicolas' plan. Rather than speak his suspicious aloud, Philip waited for confirmation.

"Sir Clinton Francis Barton is returned and open to the idea of a union. His lands are in shambles and he needs someone with a firm hand and good skills at managing estates to help put them in order, along with a healthy infusion of gold to see it done. In return, he has agreed to become one of my Thanes and heirs. I'm confident you can handle the reconstruction of Barton Manor as well as continue your work for the rest of the Holding, just from a different location. Besides, it's long past time you began to train others to be your aides. I'll need you in the days ahead."

For the second time in the conversation, Philip was taken aback. His day had begun worried about mills and sheep, and now he was engaged to a man he'd never met. Knowing more about the situation he'd be walking into helped – he had the holding on his list to visit this year – but the tight knot of worry didn't abate. He tried to remember more about the youngest Barton, but nothing came; genealogy records did little more than list children and birthdates, and Philip couldn't dredge that number out of his memory. No matter how young or old, he'd been a mercenary for at least 10 years or more and that left a mark on a man. Despite what the bards sang, war was no romantic endeavor; Philip knew all too well the smell of blood and the groans of the wounded. Too many sons returned broken men, unable to participate in polite society. And yet, Lord Nicolas was offering Sir Clinton a position in his family.

"The new Lord Barton is … skilled?" Maria was the one to raise the question. All of Fury's heirs had talents and abilities, ones he thought strengthened the family's position.

"I believe Philip is quite fond of the tale of the _Crimean Pirates and the Archer_." Fury stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. "He asks Sal to play it often enough after dinner."

"Clinton Barton is the Archer?" That knot in his chest dropped into lower regions of his body and warmed him enough that he tugged the edge of his jerkin lower. Oh, yes, he did enjoy that tale of the exploits of a blonde-haired hero, especially the part where the Archer dressed as a pirate to infiltrate Captain LeBeau's crew. So much so that he had memorized sections of it to repeat in the middle of the night. But he needed to not let his mind wander to those solitary moments with nothing but his imagination and his own hand too long; at least he could position himself behind stacks of books to hide his less than scholarly interest and splay his fingers on the heavy table so the energy grounded into the wood. "I thought that only a story."

"Sources seem to confirm that fact. And he's returned with three very interesting Thanes and a retinue of battle-tested warriors who fought under his command." Fury didn't have to expand on that statement; they all three agreed a war was coming, and far too few people capable and experienced in dealing with the realities of the fight. "We will meet one of those Thanes soon. I have invited Barton to send an envoy to conclude the negotiations, and I believe she'll be arriving today."

The smallest sound of rock bumping against rock and all three of their heads went up, senses on alert. Nicolas's study was high in the central white tower, but there were always ways to overhear. Silence for a few beats and the slightest intake of breath from outside the window.

"You may as well join us, Peter," Nicolas said. No response for a few seconds, then a hand appeared on the side of the window sill, a dusty and dirty Peter Parker right behind it, swinging into the room and dropping on to the floor. His brown hair was wild and windblown, his feet bare despite the crisp autumn air. "Tell me the Lady Darcy is not out there as well."

"She was waylaid by Aunt May for a dress fitting," Peter admitted as he ducked his head to avoid looking at the others.

"I see." The disapproving look was cold and deadly, yet Philip could see the glimmer of humor; Nicolas tapped his fingers together and remained relaxed. Crawling up walls and across parapets was an old habit with Peter; he'd been doing it since he was a child and took any height as a challenge to his skill. At least Philip had managed to get him to understand that the behavior scared others. No more flipping from one yardarm to the next, at least when strangers and towns people were in view.

"It's not fair to Phil," Peter burst out. Constraint wasn't one of his strong suits. "I know we have to, that's what being an heir means, but he's happy here and you don't even know this guy at all! He could be like Thane Wilson, crazy from war, or Thane Ross, a creepy old man."

"As a matter of fact, Lord Barton is twenty-four and he is mentally stable," Fury calmly countered.

"But … But Philip will have to leave and who will teach me and keep Darcy from running around in pants and make Jasper let me ride in the afternoons and …" The words came tumbling from Peter's mouth.

"Peter." Philip was just as calm as Nicolas, cutting into the flow; it was long past time for Peter to stand on his own.

"I had thought you ready to advance your studies at the University," Fury mused, and Philip had to work to keep his face impassive. "Philip tells me you are quite the budding scholar."

Peter eyes flew open and he held his breath for a few beats before he could respond. "I, yes, I would very much enjoy continuing. I have been corresponding with Professor Osborne, with Philip's permission." He could hardly contain his joy, bouncing on his toes, but managing to maintain a formal stance.

"Well then, that is settled." Nicolas pushed up from his chair. "Now, I believe the bathwater should still be warm enough to clean up before dinner. I'm famished." He nodded to them all, clearly aware he was leaving Philip to handle the fallout of the decisions as he exited the room; he was very good at dramatic departures.

"University, Phil!" Peter turned to him and threw himself at Philip, knocking him off balance and into the edge of the table. "You told him, didn't you? I know you did." He danced back and then remembered the rest of the conversation. "Oh. Phil. This marriage is bullshit! You shouldn't have to do it."

"It will be a new challenge and with you off to your books, this place will be much quieter." Philip almost sounded like he believed that.

"The Archer, though. Seriously, Phil, you'll know if it's him won't you?" Peter was back to prattling, moving in his own little dance around the room.

"I suppose so," he agreed; he hadn't really had time to think about it.

"The scar! You can see if he has the scar."

"What scar?" Maria asked, confused.

"In the story, the Archer is scarred by Captain LeBeau's cutlass, a crescent shape right long his hip bone. We know because the beautiful red head he rescues sees it later. Phil can check and see if it's there!" Peter answered.

So much for regaining his composure. Just the image of tracing a scar on the shallow part of the Archer's hip with his fingers? Philip was going to have to carry books around with him for the rest of the evening to hide the bulge in his trousers.

"Yes, Phil. You'll have to check and see." Maria said with a snicker as she tucked her arm in his. "But right now I'm hungry, and you can escort me down to dinner."

….

His shoulders ached from hefting the large river rocks up and over his head; the sun beat down on his already tanned skin, sweat trickling down his back as he reached for another despite the cool temperature. The wall never seemed to change, the same long expanse of rubble before them and the same rebuilt section behind. Fortifications were no good if they were in pieces, strewn about the landscape. Stonemason was a long way from his mercenary days, but it seemed that's what he'd become because Lord or no Lord, Clint couldn't protect the people of the small valley until he got this done.

"Watch the hands," Jessica warned when Clint nearly dropped a large stone, distracted by his thoughts. "I think you'd be better off working with the chinking in the state you're in." She tilted her head, black tendrils of hair escaping her long braid, and looked at him with her all-knowing green eyes.

"Thank you for your concern." Not for the first time, Clint wondered how he'd ended up surrounded by fearless women who felt the need to run his life. Jessica was a perfect example; she had been provoking him since the morning, pressing him during their practice session and now this afternoon. "But I can stack stones well enough."

"Aye, and you can second guess your decisions either way." That bit of the southern lands slipped into Jess's voice now and again, the farm still there despite her years of moving around. "You've done what had to be done. Worrying will gain you nothing."

"As if that would stop me," Clint glanced over at the other men and women working alongside them; the habit of keeping secrets was too ingrained to start sharing now. "I'm a responsible land owner now, remember? It's part of the job."

"Milord." The boy … Jace, Clint recalled … slid to a halt, panting from exertion. "Thane Romanov has returned and wishes to speak with you."

"Go," Jessica agreed. "I'll keep an eye on things here."

The walk back did little to ease his mind. Every ruined husk of a house he passed, the fallow fields and empty pens, were reminders of his failures. The burned out mill, blackened boards left in a haphazard pile, half of the waterwheel listing at a drunken angle, blocking the creek – he'd played there as a child, had made a nest under the floorboards where he kept all of his treasures in a tin box. His father never looked for him outside the manor walls, and the foundations of the chimney kept his spot warm enough even in the depths of winter. Every time he passed he thought about stopping, digging through the wreckage to see if the box was still there after all this time, but he didn't. Those days were gone, and there was no going back.

The manor wasn't much better; the family wing was nothing but rubble with boarded up windows and openings to try and stop the flow of the cold winds that whipped down from the mountains. The great hall had only four remaining buttresses, a good portion of the roof nothing but unplaned wood thrown up to keep the rain out. Gone were the stained glass windows that Michael Frasier brought home after the Battle of Trewleyn four generations ago. Soot crawled up the sides of the kitchen now; only the second floor of the guest and servant rooms had escaped the flames with all four walls and a roof intact. The place had never been perfect – his father had preferred to drink away any profit rather than invest it back into the land – but it had been home to a lot of families who had counted on their Lord to take care of them.

Natasha Romanov was waiting on the front steps, issuing some instructions to the groom; she nodded when she saw Clint approaching. For all Clint could tell, Natasha had been for a pleasure ride on a sunny fall afternoon; there was no flicker of how her reconnaissance had gone. Her red hair caught the light, her green eyes flashing up to his face when he came towards her. Petite, inches shorter than Clint, she still could quell a man with just a glance.

"You smell," she announced, wrinkling her nose at his appearance. He'd forgotten he'd taken off his vest, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt, and he was now dirty with sweat and mud.

"Welcome back to you too," he said, heading up the stairs and into the hall. Never one for pleasantries, that was Natasha; from the moment they'd met and she'd saved his inexperienced ass, something had connected between them. Not love or some kind of romantic bond like in those old stories, but the kind of link forged in blood and sweat and near misses with death. The fact that Clint preferred men was, as she had put it, a selling point. He'd never pressed her about why she mistrusted men, and she never asked why he passed coins to boys with unexplained bruises. There was no need; they understood each other perfectly.

"Wine for Thane Romanov." He grabbed a passing soldier and sent him off towards the kitchen. Another thing he had to do; find servants for the house. He'd had no time to think of anything beyond the immediate fortifications in case of another attack. Finding someone who knew how to cook more than camp food was also on that list.

They settled into the small space that used to be a storage room for the Steward's records and now served as Clint's makeshift study. Hardly big enough for a small desk and three mismatched chairs, the room was the best they could do. Clint sat down in his favorite chair, a worn wooden piece with curved sides and arm rests; it used to grace the groom's office down by the stables back when there was more than just stone walls and stalls. Clint had loved the Head Groom, loved the smell of horses and hay – it was another one of his best hiding places. The chair was smooth yet sturdy and made him think this ramshackle mess he'd inherited was worth the effort.

"Seems Lord Fury left court before Loki finalized the deal," Natasha began without preamble as soon as she had wet her throat with the sour wine. "The King is playing catch up, sending messengers scurrying out after him. I'd say Fury bought two or three days; Carol will arrive before nightfall."

Which, Clint knew, meant he'd be married to a man he'd never met and wouldn't for a good week or so more before he went to sleep. He'd sent his proxy with Carol, and she'd stand in his place at the ceremony. After that, just the consummation remained; until then happened, there was still room for the King to annul the union.

"Fury's smart, but we knew that." Clint sat his own glass down, the alcohol not of interest to him, his stomach already roiled with his thoughts. "His protection and money will go a long way towards shoring up the defenses here; I'm worried about the reports from the outer holds." Herds were thinning in the foothills, those sheep left to roam not coming home. It was starting again, Clint knew, his instincts for trouble honed by those years sleeping in snatches with an ear open.

"We're not the only ones. I had a very interesting conversation with Lord Stark's Head Guard Hogan. They have holders moving back to Stark Castle, claiming there are monsters in the dark on the moors. And Lord Richards is locked in his tower as usual, working on some new project that is consuming his attention, but he's sent his brother-in-law and wife on a progress to survey their boundaries. They know trouble is afoot." Natasha folded a leg under her, lithe and flexible. This was what she did best, mingling at court, knowing who to befriend and just how to get the information they needed. She blended well, at ease in an elegant gown as well as her leather jodhpurs, and had saved their lives over again with the smallest of dropped word, the most simple of body language read and interpreted.

"And the King doesn't listen, too caught up in Loki's lies." Anger. That's what he felt. Privileged and useless, squandering his power on sycophants while the people teetered on the brink of a fall. No use in going over it all again, though; Natasha already agreed with him about the danger.

"Four years older." Natasha's green eyes never left his face as she spoke. "In case you wanted to know."

He did, but he didn't. What difference did the knowledge make? Whoever Philip Coulson was, Clint had made his decision.

"Competent. Learned. Organized. Scholarly. Tough but fair. Fury's left hand. Those are the terms most often used to describe him. Then there are the rumors. My personal favorite is that he was created in Lord Stark's workshop, the perfect steward. Even more fascinating are the older whispers that his mother was more than just a healer and he inherited her power." She was teasing Clint, tossing out bits and pieces to get him to admit his interest. He might as well because she wouldn't stop until he asked.

"What is your opinion, Nat?" That earned him one of her rare real smiles.

"He may just be exactly what we need here. He's actively involved in Fury's properties and very good at his job. I'd hazard a guess he'll have this place running again much faster than we can imagine. But more than that, I've heard watching him and Thane Hill spar is a thing of beauty." She sighed a little; well-trained fighters were like poetry to her. "I can assure you, he's not ugly; one of the court bards has written an ode to his blue eyes. I could sing you a verse if you like."

"No, thank you." He had to smile at the notion; Natasha had no sense of tone at all. When they'd earned room & board in exchange for a few songs, Clint always had to do the vocals while she played. "Blue eyes, eh?"

"I hear he wears lens when he reads, which is quite often." Now she was going for the kill; she knew exactly what kind of man Clint liked over their years together.

"Yes, and he can beat me at cards, bake a cherry pie, and really wants an ex-mercenary with a lot of scars to top him," Clint rolled his eyes. "You don't have to sell him to me."

"True. All I will say is I am hopeful. And if the magic turns out to be true? More than hopeful, downright excited." She wouldn't lie to him. Not about this.

For a moment, he let himself believe all would be well.

…

"Are you going to faint?" Peter whispered in Philip's ear. "I'll get Darce to stand on the other side and we'll keep you up. No one will know."

He wasn't going to faint even though his stomach was churning and his knees felt weak. Not exactly how he thought his wedding would go; there had never been a tall blonde warrior standing next to him in even the most outrageous scenarios. Yet here he was, time of the essence, Nicolas, Maria, Darcy and Peter as witnesses. Jasper Stillwell was handling the paperwork; normally that would be Philip's job but he couldn't validate his own marriage contract.

"Philip?" Jasper asked, handing him a quill. Stepping forward, Philip saw Lord Clinton Francis Barton's already inked name and his hand hesitated, a small blot of ink falling on the page. With a deep breath, Philip signed his own. And just like that, he was married. The room spun slightly, and he suddenly wished he'd eaten some of May's amazing roast and forgone that shot of liquid courage he'd taken before coming here.

What's done is done, he thought. Tomorrow he had to begin planning for his move to Barton Manor. He started the list in his head even as he handed the quill back.


	3. An Answer to the Right Question

They rode hard, pushing themselves and their horses long past sundown, using the light of the waxing moon to see where the smaller trail turned off from the main road. As the trees closed in around them, they had to dismount and lead their sweaty mounts through the winding turns that led to the small clearing. The stone building was tucked under the eaves of a large ash tree, the branches curving over the thatch like a second roof, trunk snug against a rock wall. It was hard to tell how large the house was; the shadows of the woods cloaked around it, obscuring most all but the front door. Philip watched as Carol walked over and rapped on it with a firm knock.

This wasn't how he expected the day to proceed. Just last evening he signed the marriage contract and began planning the logistics of his move to Barton Manor. At least a week, he'd told Lord Fury; he needed the time to pack the necessary items for the trip and make arrangements to keep the holding running smoothly in his absence. A day just to go through his library to pull out all the necessary books to be shipped by wagon, another to begin the process of hiring skilled craftsmen to help with the rebuilding efforts. Packing his personal belongings he could leave to Darcy, but Jasper would need a good two days to calm down about taking over the day-to-day duties.

All that fell by the wayside when a rider appeared with news that the King himself was on the way to Tarian Castle to make his wishes known. Once he arrived, Philip's marriage would become very short term; Prince Loki was in the royal party and an unconsummated union was easy enough for a king to annul. Within an hour, Philip was on a horse with two changes of clothes, his glasses, three books he had to have, and a satchel full of medicines and other traveling necessities. Just himself, Thane Carol Danvers, and the three guards she'd brought with her left the castle, determined to get a head start on any pursuit. They need make only one stop on the way; Barton Manor did not have a clerk, the last one killed in the massacre two years ago, and one was needed to ratify the union.

The door opened and a man emerged, rubbing his eyes before he stared out at the group. His brown hair was a crown of short curls falling in all directions, and he wore simple brown woolen pants and a worn leather jerkin over his faded linen shirt. Blinking as if just awoken, he spoke. "Can I help you?"

"We require a clerk to verify a marriage," Carol said. Philip had learned very little about the woman who was the head of Lord Barton's guard; they'd only had one short conversation yesterday evening. Had they set a more leisurely pace today, there might have been time to talk, but the punishing pace had required all of their attention to the road.

"Ah, yes, and who is the lucky groom?" The clerk looked out over the five men, his assumption clear.

"It is not for me," Carol corrected, "but for Lord Barton. We hoped you would come to the Manor with us."

"Lord Charles is not dead?" he asked. Philip didn't need to see the clerk's face to know his reaction to the name; disdain echoed in his voice.

"Lord Clinton Barton has returned and taken up the mantle." Carol's own voice betrayed her; she was growing frustrated with the conversation. "The King requires ratification of the consummation."

He surveyed the men again, his eyes alighting upon Philip and lingering as if he recognized him. After a moment's hesitation, he replied, "I see. Well, in that case, I would be delighted. Is first light soon enough? I'd prefer not traveling through the woods in the dark. I'm afraid I have little room, but I can offer you a fire to warm by and soft moss to sleep in. The clearing here is quite safe."

"Thank you." Philip stepped forward and offered a small nod of his head in respect. "We are tired and have traveled a long way. I am Philip Coulson, Lord Barton's intended, and I appreciate your willingness to help."

"Bruce," he replied, searching Philip's face as if for answers. "Bruce Banner. It will be my honor, milord."

They fell to it quickly, building a small fire in the cleared pit for warmth before they tossed out their bedrolls and crawled in. Carol and the guard divided the watch for the five hours until the sun showed her face again, refusing Philip's offer to sit for one. She'd taken to calling him Milord from the moment the contract was signed, and she treated him as if he was already the Head of the Manor. The protective element was beginning to grate on Philip, but he imagined it was just a misunderstanding; she barely knew him and it would be easy to mistake him for a bookish type. Still, he'd have to change that perception soon if he were to earn her trust.

He dropped into sleep immediately, a trait he had honed over the years; sleep when you can, Maria always said. Soon he was dreaming, wandering in darkness, wet walls of the cave lit by a blue-green luminescence. Sigils marked each turning, every opening, but they were unfamiliar and Philip was lost. Eyes glowed in the night of the passageways, watching him, waiting for him. A steady heart beat pulsed beneath his feet, vibrations thrumming under his feet as he stumbled, took the left passage and wandered deeper. Green bled down from the curve of the ceiling, rock turned to polished stone and he walked into the ruined hall, blackened char painting intricate patterns where tapestries once hung. Before the fireplace, a figure stood, shadows handing from his shoulders; he turned, face towards the light …

When his lids flew open, he was looking at the forest, a squat shape just beyond the circle of the fire, hunched down beside a tree, half concealed by a holly bush. A flash as eyes caught the light, reflecting it back, and then it was gone, the tree swaying as it climbed to a branch and settled in the crook. He let out the breath he'd unconsciously held, slowly eased his hand to the hilt of his dagger, and waited.

"It's a gimlet," Carol said from where she sat watch. Tilting his head up, he could see her face, half cast in shadow; she was far from a classical beauty, her nose too angular and her chin a hair too sharp. A scar ran along her cheek and down her jaw line, faint but visible. And yet, strength radiated from her features, confidence in herself written in her blue eyes and in the straightness of her spine. He didn't know her, yet he knew he'd want her on his side, that coiled energy fighting for him. "We're lucky there's only one. It won't risk an attack on greater numbers; they're basically scavengers, not predators."

"I've read about them. I thought they lived in warrens, mostly in the foothills." He noticed how she kept an eye on the creature without seeming to look directly at it.

"We've seen a number of them, mostly on the eastern borders of the holding. Took down a cow that wandered out of its pen, and three jumped a fence into a stable one night. Vicious little beasts." She absently tucked a stray tendril of blonde hair behind her ear. "They're moving south for some reason."

Philip let that fact sink in and filed it away into his box of unexplained but not coincidences. "Stark has mongrels encroaching, harrying his flocks," he offered, information for information.

"We've lost a lot of sheep lately, more so in the last few months than the year before. First it was strays but now it's the herds that are furthest out in the hills."

"Any number of predators could take down a sheep. If forced out of their habitat, they'd be agitated and aggressive." The gimlet moved, easing along the branch to stretch out, leaves shivering as its tail dropped down and swung free. "Even our friend out there might change his nature if he's hungry or scared enough."

Carol nodded, accepting his point. "Everything is capable of change under the right circumstances. For us, we have a decision in the process."

"True," Philip answered, eyes drifting closed again. He lapsed into silence, her words echoing as he slipped back into sleep. This time, he didn't dream.

…

The sound of galloping hooves grew close and Clint looked up, dropping the stone he was lifting and stretching to work the kink out of his back as he narrowed his focus in on the approaching figures. As soon as he saw Natasha's red hair and the three fighters with her, he grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head, reaching for his leather vest next. With the quick efficiency of long practice, he buckled on his sword belt, tied off the scabbard around his thigh and slung his quiver across his back. By the time she reigned in, Clint was ready to put his foot in the stirrup and swing into the saddle; he gave Jessica, ready as well, a hand up behind him before Natasha spoke.

"Trouble north of Fallow's field," was all she had to say and they were away, racing back the way they came, towards the town of Frasierton. They clattered across the newly built wooden bridge, the stone replacement only a third finished and circled around the town square to avoid the stalls being set up for tomorrow's market. Buildings became houses, further and further apart and then they were out in the fields, past rows of carrots and potatoes, through grooves of apple trees.

The first sound of battle they heard was a child's scream and a deep throated growl that raised the hairs on the back of Clint's neck. Topping a rise, the terrifying scene lay before him: a cozy cottage, orange flowers in bloom around the door, and a bloody body just outside, sightless eyes of the farmer staring at nothing. Around him circled three animals unlike anything Clint had ever seen before. Four-legged like a wolf, slick coat of an otter, the size of a hound, they worried the body, gnawing at the limbs. One picked up a hand and shook it like a rag in a dog's mouth. Two more jumped at the tree near the front corner; a young child, no more than three, clung to a limb, screaming for his mother between broken sobs. Of the mother, there was no sign.

Slowing, he lined up the shot, arrow flying unerringly into one of the creatures harrying the child. It yelped in pain before it fell and four heads swiveled, keying in on the newcomers; they ran fast, swifter than a horse, with a smooth gait that covered ground in long strides. Clint got off two more shots before the creatures were on them, leaping up to grab feet. One of the men grunted in surprise as a set of sharp teeth closed on his ankle and yanked him out of the saddle; bone cracked as he fell but Natasha's sword slashed deep into the creature's flank before it could do more and Jessica had the fourth dispatched before the woman came running out the door, baby tied to her back.

"Martin!" she fell down on the ground next to the man and hunched over him, hair falling loose about her face.

"I've got the boy," Jessica said. Clint dismounted and handed her the reins; she stopped under the tree, gently coaxing the child down.

"He's dead, oh, gods, he's dead," the woman wailed. Her crying made the baby start up, his face scrunching up, flush red as he screamed. Clint walked to her, helping her up with a hand under her arm. "Milord?" she hiccupped as she tried to stifle her sobs.

"What happened?" He'd seen far too many weeping spouses in his time already. "Can you tell me?"

"Martin came home for lunch. To see the baby. He's colicky and so hard to handle, so he gave me a break and was taking Richard with him." The older boy in question came running to his mother; she smothered him with her skirt as he clung tightly, brown eyes wide with shock. I'd just gone back inside when those things came. Martin tossed Richard up, and then they were on him. I've never seen anything like them."

"Why don't you take the children inside," Jessica suggested. She'd dropped out of her saddle and urged the woman towards the door. "We'll take care of him, I promise."

"Thank you, Milord. You saved my children. Those things would have had us all," she said as she scooped the boy up, carrying both children into their small home.

"Any idea what these are?" Clint looked at the dead carcass under the tree. Claws extended from the paws, curved and wicked-looking.

There was no warning; the weight hit him square in the middle of back, carrying him down to the ground as sharp pricks dug into his skin, cutting through the leather easily. Fetid breath rolled over his senses as teeth descended towards his exposed neck. No time to think 'oh, I'm dead' just an instant reaction; he bucked up, using his hands as leverage and the mouth snapped shut inches short of its goal. His head slammed into fur covered sinew, then he felt the body on top of him go stiff, the death yowl deafening in his ears as the creature fell off of him, Natasha's sword in its spine. It was fully twice the size of the others, easily as big as a small pony. Offering her hand, Natasha helped him up; he felt his back, his vest and shirt in shreds where the creatures had clung.

"You just can't have anything nice," Natasha remarked, an old joke. "Here, let me see." She turned him around. "Nothing to worry about. I'll check on Johnson." She headed back to the wounded man.

"Burn the bodies?" Jessica asked. Her sword was still drawn and her eyes scanned the horizon. "The farmer too?"

One of the lessoned learned in the further isles: better safe than sorry keeps you alive for one more day. "All of them. My money's on a mother and her cubs. Look how lean their flanks are? They were starving."

"Nothing's dared some this close before," Jessica voiced what Clint was thinking. "It's getting worse."

"Yes, it is."

When they returned to the manor, Clint made them see to Johnson first, helping carry him into the main hall, his broken leg held at an unnatural angle. Barton Manor no longer boasted a healer; all they had was one of Clint's men who was versed in battlefield triage. He could set a bone, wrap up a wound, but anything beyond that was out of his expertise. Only after Johnson had taken his first dose of poppy juice did Clint strip off his ruined vest and shirt; with a jar of medical salve, he just needed to find someone to smear the smelly stuff over the scratches.

"I'll do that." Andrew smiled at him and took the pot, turning Clint around. He hissed at the first touch of the cream but then the coolness of it spread, deadening the sting. "I'm good with my hands, remember."

Yes, Clint remembered, and Andrew was another of those mistakes Clint could chalk up to inexperience being a Lord. He should never have allowed himself to find comfort with Andrew; sex wasn't the issue – the man was very good with his hands and his mouth – but Clint hadn't thought through the implications of the action. When his father had chased the scullery girls, all Clint knew was how much it made his mother cry late at night in her room. He hadn't noticed the jockeying for position, the way his father's current lover used that as a weapon over the others. He needed to end the dalliance now, especially in light of his newly married status. Becoming like his father was something Clint was never going to do.

"You know I am married now," he began, a good start, he thought.

"Indeed I do, Milord. Do not worry, I understand the situation well." He laughed into Clint's ear, long brown hair brushing over Clint's shoulder. "I can be discrete."

"No," Clint tried one more time. "There's no need to be discrete at all."

"Oh, that's very naughty of you," he said, laying a hand on Clint's arm and sliding along the muscles there. "An open marriage?"

"What I mean is I will have no more need of you … your services … hell, no more sex, okay?" Clint was never good at these kinds of conversations. "I will not be unfaithful."

Andrew's hand withdrew, and he sat the pot down on a table. His green eyes turned cold then softened. "I see. Yes, that's what you have to do. But when you need me again, I'll be here." He sauntered off towards the few other servants with a beckoning backward glance.

"Damn it. That was clear enough," Clint grumbled to himself.

"Maybe if you kept your laces tied, you'd have better luck," Natasha suggested, coming up behind him. Again. Natasha was the best at it, but Carol and Jess had fair share of stealthy movements. He didn't react at all, just sighed.

"Maybe if you got laid once in a while …" He returned her teasing in kind. They were a team, the four of them, all seemingly incapable of being happy in love. Natasha had never found a man she trusted enough. Jessica pined for someone who didn't know of her feelings. Carol insisted those interested best her in combat. And Clint? Honestly, he didn't think anyone could truly want him. His lands, his money, his strength, his skills … yes, those were valuable commodities worth buying. Lord Fury he understood; he wanted Clint for his abilities and the political bargaining chip the marriage gave him. Thane Coulson agreed for the same reasons; the strengthening of the holding and, as Fury had suggested, the challenge the manor represented. But love? Clint had no illusions about himself; he'd done questionable things to survive and he still bore the marks of many of them.

"Milord." Rosenberg was breathing hard as he came to a stop. "Riders. Coming through town. Carol's with them."

Natasha shrugged when he looked at her; Carol was planned to escort Thane Coulson and not due back for a good week or two. "Andrew," Clint called. "Bring me a new shirt, would you? I'll be on the front steps."

"Of course, Milord," the young man replied. By the time they got outside, the six horses and their riders were cantering up the hill. Carol reigned to a stop first, sliding off the side of her horse and passing off the reigns.

"What's happened?" was Clint's first question. Different scenarios were unfolding in his head. "Did Fury double-cross us? What about Loki?"

"Clint." Carol's voice brought him up short. "May I introduce Philip Coulson."

The man who stepped forward was not what Clint had expected. When he'd thought about Philip, and he had spent some long hours lying awake picturing him, Clint had decided he'd be slim, short, and pale from being indoors working with ledgers, fingers stained with ink. But here he was, as tall as Clint, leather pants clinging to his muscular thighs, not slim but muscular and lean as a whipcord. His brown hair fell over his forehead, the slightest wave, dulled by trail dirt. His age was only found in the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes and edges of his mouth. The most amazing green eyes, the color of spring grasses in the Outer Isles, widened in surprise as they surveyed Clint, running down to his feet and then back up to his face, lingering on his bare chest and the map of marks that told Clint's history. The urge to cover himself was so strong that Clint's hands raised on their own accord; he curled them into fists and forced them back by his side. His cheeks burned with the flush that crept into them.

"My lord," Philip bowed. By the time his face came back up, he'd shuttered his emotions. "Forgive my unannounced arrival. I believe you may have a visit from the King within the week and we thought it best if I were here when he comes. Fortunately his entourage moves at a much slower pace and Lord Fury will insist upon offering his hospitality for a few days."

"I see." He did. The message was perfectly phrased. "I'm afraid we are not yet prepared for visitors, as you can see. I certainly hope the King brings tents and his own chef." With a hand, he waved behind him, encompassing the house and grounds. Those green eyes took it in, the intelligence there noting all the damage and the work to be done. Then he smiled, and his face softened as he turned his attention back to Clint.

"I believe I can help with that. And, yes, he does bring his whole household. It's quite a circus."

"Milord, your shirt," Andrew drawled. His fingers brushed against Clint's as the shirt changed hands, and Philip noted the exchange.

"Thank you," Clint said in dismissal, thankful when the young man backed away. He heard Jessica huff behind him and felt Carol's disappointed stare. He wondered, yet again, why he was surrounded by people who knew better than he did and didn't mind telling him on a daily basis.

"You're bleeding," Carol said. "Nat?"

"An attack on a small farm north of town," she supplied, succinct as always. "Some sort of animal, a mother and cubs. I've never seen them before; much like a wolf, but bigger with short fur and long claws."

"Brown and slick like an otter? Big eyes?" Philip asked. At Clint's nod, he continued. "Probably mountain rugers. They live on the slopes, up beyond the tree line, thus the waterproof coat for the snow. Were you scratched? Wounds from their claws and teeth often get infected. Any break of the skin is at risk."

"Do you know how to treat them?" Carol asked.

"Yes, assuming I have the right herbs and salves." Philip nodded. "My mother was a healer."

"I can also help," the other unknown man offered, voice shy and quiet. "I brought my kit; I have dried verbena." He nodded to Clint. "Bruce Banner, Clerk of the Desert Order. I'm here to validate your marriage."

"See to Johnson first. His leg is worse." Clint led the way into the hall, trying not to worry about the man following behind.

…

The main hall of the manor was good sized and had managed to avoid the worst of the damage. Aside from a good cleaning of the fireplace – and probably the flue as well –a new roof and new furnishings, there was little structurally needed here. Philip's mental list grew longer with every glance at the empty walls; he'd have to start writing the items down soon or he'd begin to forget. Taking another spoonful of his stew, he continued watching as people ate and laughed, more than a few questioning glances thrown Philip's way on the main dais. The room was less than a third full, many open seats on the makeshift benches and rough-hewn trestle tables that had been thrown together. Not counting Lord Barton … no, he'd told Philip to call him Clint … and the three women, the hold boasted fifteen fighting men and women, all veterans. Of the others in the room, there were five squires, three banner holders, and a handful of camp followers who were playing at the role of servants. What Philip didn't see were any of the townsfolk, no scullery workers, gardeners, or household maids. The stew, while certainly serviceable and filling, was basic camp food; he'd bet that there was no head chef. Most of those in the manor on the day of the attack had been killed, but the town had escaped with less damage, so there should be people with skills looking for work. Watching one particularly buxom young woman in a low cut gown settle onto the lap of a male fighter, wiggling generously and laughing at his straying hands, Philip had a pretty good idea of why they weren't here.

"Johnson is looking well," Natasha said. The red-head was seated on Philip's left; she looked vaguely familiar, and he'd been wrestling with his memory all evening to no avail. "Lucky you and Clerk Banner were here, for both him and Clint. We need to find a permanent healer."

"I'm sure Lord Barton is working on that," he said. Lesson number one of being a good steward: always give all credit to the Lord for good things and take the responsibility for the bad on yourself.

"You are going to do well here." She tilted her head, a small smile playing along her red lips. "He won't mind you taking the initiative as long as you keep him informed. One of things that makes him such a good leader; he knows when to get out of the way."

"It seems to me that Clerk Banner might be swayed our direction." Philip's eyes settled on the man in question; he was seated at the other end of the dais beside Carol carrying on a quiet conversation with her. He'd been hiding since they'd arrived, displaying a talent to go unnoticed; there was a story there, Philip was sure, but for a man who'd chosen the solitary existence of a hermit, he certainly enjoyed the company and loved a good discussion. With the right lure, he was sure Banner could be talked into establishing his own workshop and apothecary somewhere closer, within the bounds of the holding.

A shout arose from one of the tables. Clint waved the knife he'd caught and flicked his wrist; it landed with a satisfyingly loud thunk between a fighter's fingers spread on the table. Another cheer went up, and Philip noticed the young man who'd brought the shirt earlier lean in, his hand resting on the small of Clint's back. A lump settled in Philip's throat; he had no illusions about that part of the marriage, but the sight still bothered him. Some Lords took lovers, one or many, even those who were wed. A man like Clint, used to the looser restrictions of a mercenary camp and as handsome as he was, probably had a long line of those willing to share his bed, and Philip steeled himself to that fact. As long as the other men were discrete, he could manage.

But the image of Clint's bare chest still hung in his mind. Barton was rugged, his body honed by war, taut muscles cast in relief, the lines of them like a picture in one of Philip's tomes. He'd been half hypnotized by Barton's every movement, the way his biceps flexed when he reached out. Blonde hair that needed cutting, and eyes … eyes like the changing sea, blue then green then grey then blue. He shook his head to clear it of such romantic nonsense that wasn't going to help him tonight.

"He's a good man," Natasha said, watching the same scene as Philip. "But, unfortunately, he is still a man." Her eyes twinkled and he realized she was teasing him.

"You do realize that I'm a man as well?" The banter took his mind off of the way time was winding down on the evening.

"Yes, so you are." She broke off the heel of a loaf of brown bread and used it to dip into her stew.

"And you want to know why, when someone offers to suck our dick, we become idiots?" he said in his favorite deadpan delivery. She coughed as she swallowed wrong then laughed.

"I knew I was going to like you." She drank a long sip of wine to clear her throat. "Well?"

"Because it feels damn good."

That got an even louder laugh and Clint looked up at them. A thumping started, flagons banging on the table, feet stomping on the floor and then the chanting started. "Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!" Philip couldn't help but blush; Natasha laid a comforting hand on his shoulder as she stood.

"We, the Thanes of Lord Clinton Barton, claim the right of preparing the groom!" She shouted, her voice carrying to the very back of the hall. Roars of approval sounded, and Philip felt his anxiety slip a little, glad for her help. Rather than the whole group carting him to the bedroom and watching him undress, it would be only Natasha, Carol, and Jessica. Still nerve wracking but better. "Clerk Banner, will you accompany us?"

"Aye, I will." He stood, offered a friendly smile to Philip, and followed them out of the hall, leaving the shouting for more ale behind them.

"I'm afraid rooms are limited in the manor," Natasha said, leading the way. "Clint has the largest of the guest rooms and that will have to suffice. Unfortunately, it is on the same hallway with all of our rooms, so there will be very little privacy. The soldiers are bunked out in a wing of the stables, a solution that won't last through winter but works for now." She stopped in front of a doorway, and Philip understood what she meant. Doors lined the hallway and sound would carry easily. Inside, the room was small, room enough for a double bed, a fireplace with a tiny table and two chairs on either side, a wardrobe on one wall. The intimacy of it tightened his suddenly dry throat.

"This will do." He found his hands unsteady as he reached for his belt.

"A gift from us," Carol said, holding out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. "We thought it handy."

"I did not expect …" he took the package, grateful they all ignore the way his hands clutched the edges.

"Open it. You can use it now," Jessica encouraged. He untied the string and folded back the paper. Inside was a dressing gown, soft black velvet with purple trim. He recognized the maker's mark on the collar, one of the best in the capitol. Underneath was a new linen night shirt, long enough to reach past his knees. "We thought it would help with privacy. We all wear night clothes now in case we bump into each other."

"This is lovely. Thank you." He couldn't help the way his voice shook as he answered; he felt a swell of thankfulness for this small gesture.

"We'll be outside. Knock when you're ready, and we'll send for Clint." Natasha ushered them out the door then turned to him. "Remember. You know how to make him an idiot." Laughing, she exited the room. For seconds, all Philip could do was stand by the bed, a silly grin on his face. It wasn't as if he was inexperienced in these matters; he'd not been joking with Natasha about his brain going south when a wet mouth was on his cock. Truth was, though, he'd always hesitated about doing more than that. No logical reason just that the moment was never right. There'd been his first love, a young man so beautiful Fury's bard Sal wrote sonnets about him; Philip had been ready but then his lover had been chosen and gone to court where a dozen wealthy Lords had more to offer.

He undressed with deliberation, taking each piece of clothing and folding it up neatly, placing them on the small stool by the wardrobe; his pack sat in the corner with his clean set for the morrow. His mail he carefully stowed in his pack, dagger tucked into the folds of his shirt and swords leaned against the wall. When he was fully nude, he laid the new nightshirt aside – it would only get in the way – and slipped into the robe. The inside was softer than the outside, and it was warm enough to chase away chills on future nights. Now, the fire was stoked and burning brightly, casting its warmth out into the room. He rapped on the door, and Banner was the one who stepped through.

"I need to ask you a few questions." Walking to the table, Banner poured wine into one of the goblets there and handed it to Philip. "Drink this. It will help." He didn't want to, but he found the first sip helped ease his parched throat, so he took a second then a third. "Do you enter into this union of your own free will?"

"Yes." He knew the questions were to determine if he was coerced in any way. Too many horror stories of people forced into giving up their lands and fortunes to scoundrels who tricked them. Even worse were fathers and Lords who sold their heirs to the highest bidder with no regard to their safety or desires.

"Do you understand that all you have - money, land, knowledge, strength - will be shared with Clint?"

"Yes." Plus all the resources Fury would allow him to bring to bear to help these people.

"And do you understand that your loyalty now lies with House Barton, all previous ties broken as you form a new union?"

"Yes." He was now Philip of Barton Manor.

"Do you understand that the bonds of marriage are to provide for children and heirs, and do you agree to play your part in the creation of this household?"

"Yes." Children. Philip had thought that raising Peter and Darcy would be his contribution, but now there was the possibility of new heirs.

"Good. I'll ask Clint the same questions and send him in. I'll be outside the door, waiting, to finalize the union." Banner nodded then clapped Philip on the back. "From what little I've seen, you're both good men. Tonight may be awkward, but you'll get through it." With that, he left Philip alone in the room with his now empty glass of wine. He thought about pouring another, but getting drunk wasn't a solution even if it might make the whole effort easier. He heard them before Clint came through the door, holding onto his shirt and trousers to keep them away from the myriad of hands trying to take them off. The crowd pushed him through the threshold with a mighty cheer, and he slammed the door, lock clinking into place as those outside groaned and knocked before they retreated down the hallway.

"Well." Clint stopped, rubbed the back of his neck, took a breath, and tried again. "Your robe is … nice."

"A gift from your thanes." Oh, gods, but this was difficult. What did he say? Should they just start?

"Natasha's choice, I imagine. She has excellent taste." Clint shrugged, still standing by the door. "The quarters are close here; we've all made adjustments. As usual, they are miles ahead of me."

"They seem more than competent." Philip wasn't sure why they were having this conversation except that it delayed the inevitable. Silence spun out and they stared at each other until he had to say something. "Well, shall we?" He was proud that he maintained an even tone for the question. "Banner is waiting, as is, I imagine, any number of your men."

"I'm usually better at this," Clint gave a rueful laugh.

"I supposed I can start things off." Philip was the one to close the distance; he caught the edge of Clint's shirt and tugged it loose from his trousers. Dropping to his knees, he looked back up and saw those blue-grey eyes darken. Untying the laces, he freed Clint's flaccid cock and gave an easy stroke with his fingers as it stirred with interest. With his mouth and tongue, he worked, feeling the way it grew and hardened in time to Clint's little sounds of pleasure. Sliding his hands around, he clasped the curve of Clint's ass and pressed harder, taking him deeper. Philip's own cock grew heavy as he enjoyed the taste of Clint, the way he was so sensitive just under the flushed head, how he tensed his stomach muscles to avoid thrusting forward.

"Stop. You have to stop." Clint finally sank his hands into Philip's hair, tugging his head back. "I need you to stop."

"I'm sorry." He backed away, on his knees, sitting down on his heel. "I thought this might help …"

"No, I liked it. Too much. I was getting close." He stood with his cock out, curled slightly up and leaking. "But we need to … I mean …" He ran a hand over his face. "Damn it, why is this so difficult?"

Philip stood up and stepped back. "Where do you want me?"

"Maybe we're going about this all wrong." This time it was Clint who closed the distance; he pulled on the tie of the robe, opening it and pushing it off to pool on the floor. Philip felt Clint's eyes on him, like phantom fingers tracing down his chest, chased by heat in his body. Without a word, Clint's hand reached out and made the touch real, calloused fingertips swirling invisible words that were trailed by little pulses of energy. When the caress ran the length of his cock, he sucked in a breath as the power coalesced in his groin and he moaned.

"What is your weapon? You're so lean, long muscles." Clint stroked and Philip was confused by the question until he realized Clint was asking what he trained with.

"Short swords." A gasp of air as Clint's fist closed around him, and he was close so fast. He let his hands curl around Clint's waist, grounding himself in the other man's strength, fingers tightening.

"Oh," Clint jumped just as Philip realized he was griping the bandages. Philip jerked away and then they were staring at each other again.

"I'm sorry." Gods, this wasn't working, just a comedy of errors. "Let me check and see if it's bleeding."

"No need," Clint argued but Philip caught the hem of the linen shirt and tugged it up. Clint flinched when Philip's fingers touched his skin, catching on the edge of a long scar; he pulled, taking the shirt off and tossing it out of the way. Clint averted his eyes, but Philip pushed down the leather pants, baring Clint in the same way Philip already was. He checked – no blood – then Philip looked his fill. Muscles that cried out to be caressed darkened skin from the sun, arms that were sinew and veins, their strength evident. Curving just over the hip bone, a raised white crescent of a scar. Philip's mind went blank and he stilled.

"Philip?" Clint asked, eyes shadowed with an old pain.

"Phil. Call me Phil." He surged forward and kissed Clint, wrapped his hands around Clint's neck and dragged him into contact, their bodies aligning as their lips met for the first time. Kisses were more intimate, crossed some sort of boundary; Clint turned them, pressed them back towards the bed until Philip hit the edge.

"Top or bottom?" Clint asked, breathy and low, the sound stirring the heat inside of Philip.

"I … I don't know?" Philip couldn't manage a lie, too caught up in the feel of Clint's hands on his back, Clint's lips on his neck.

"You've never?" Clint stopped kissing him, and Philip tightened his hold, afraid they would come to a halt yet again.

"Never, but that doesn't matter now. Whatever you want. Just please, don't stop," he asked.

"Have you ever dreamed about it?" Clint pressed him; Philip blushed again, unable to stop the memory of those late night fantasies of the Archer from his consciousness. "Yes, I can see you have. Top or bottom?"

He didn't want to answer; it was all far too blunt a conversation, but this wasn't the ideal romantic situation. "Bottom," he whispered, eyes squeezed shut.

"Okay," Clint' voice deepened. "Lay down for me." Taking the hint when Clint nudged him, Philip crawled in the middle of the bed, stretched out on his back as Clint took an ornate pot from the bedside table, opened the lid and smeared his fingers with the fragrant gel inside.

"Now, tell me. Where, when, who … and most of all how." He pushed Philip's legs open, and his fingers slipped past his straining cock, lower, light grazes that grew into long, slow strokes.

"It's embarrassing," Philip protested, wiggling at the sensation as Clint ghosted over the sensitive area then began to rub his thumb harder. "Gods, you're not supposed to speak these things out loud."

"I'll tell you mine about the librarian later, promise." Clint smiled at that and pressed his finger in just a bit. Tight, so tight and it burned; Philip gasped for a breath and Clint eased back out. "Come on, Phil."

"On a boat, I'm on a boat," he groaned out as that finger slid in again, a little further, stretching and receding. "I'm in the King's Navy, a captain and we capture this famous … pirate." There was no way he was going to admit that it was Clint himself who held the main role in Philip's fantasies. How mortifying that would be.

"Pirates. Not nearly as romantic as the stories make them out to be in real life. Still, I can see the attraction after hearing some bards' tales." He was all the way inside, and Philip had to struggle not to tense up and push him back out. "So he offers himself to you as a way off out of prison?"

"No. I go down to his cell and tell him if he'll … Gods." The pressure was like the ache of overextended muscles when the second finger joined the first.

"If he'll what? Keep breathing and relax."

"If he'll … suck me off." It was easier if he kept his eyes shut, didn't see the way Clint had to be looking at him, silly romantic he was. Digging his heels in, he tried, really tried to let the tension go when Clint added a third finger, but the banked power and heat were fighting with each other, anxiety pouring through him.

"So you let him go and he takes you up on the deal." Clint was leaning closer now; Phil could feel the warmth of his body.

"N-n-n-no. He's in the cell and …" Philip swallowed and whispered the rest. "Chained up. I make him do it there."

"Ah." Breath ghosted over his chest, and he cantered his hips up to meet the slow strokes that were forcing him apart. "Then he fucks you, right there?"

All he could manage was a shake of his head and a wavering inhale. "Later. Later, one night in my cabin, he comes back …"

"Phil. I think I've got this figured out. Roll over." Clint slipped his fingers out and Philip did as asked, moving onto his stomach, pillowing his head on his hands as Clint straddled him. Along the crease of his ass, he felt the weight of Clint's cock glide up and back. When he tried to lift his hips, Clint's hands circled his waist and held him down. "Reach your hands up and grab the spindles." Opening his eyes, he saw the wooden headboard with decorated spirals, thick and heavy runners of wood, just the right size for his palms to curve around. As his fingers closed in, he felt something splinter in his chest, breaking free the tension in his gut and the power in his head. They flowed down to his cock, making it ache with need, over riding the discomfort he was feeling. "I want you to picture it in your head. Feel the rhythm of the ocean." Clint slid back until the tip of his cock was bumping between Phil's legs; fingers breached again but this time Philip let the stretch and burn be overcome by the friction of the quilt on his own cock and the firm pressure of Clint's hands on his skin. "Does he hold you down?" His face buried in the bedding, Phil nodded in response. The intrusion was still new, unexpected, but then Clint twisted his hand and a jolt of pleasure rippled up Philip's spine, more intense than any he'd felt before.

"Gods," Phil breathed and bucked, trying to push back to get that feeling again. "That's …"

"Yeah, that's good, isn't it? Makes you want more, want it harder and faster." Clint's fingers were gone, but then his cock was pushing inside slowly, thick and insistent. "Does he tell you that you want it? That he can tell from the way you move beneath him, how you angle up to receive his hard cock?"

He was being filled and it was nothing like he'd imagined even in his most intimate of dreams. Knees parted and Clint was almost all the way inside as the grooves on the spindles bit into his palms, sure to leave marks. "Yes," he admitted. "But I didn't know what it was like, didn't …. Gods, Clint, are you going move now? I think I need …"

Clint pulled out and then slid back slowly. "I know what you need. You need to give me control, here, in this bed. I'll take care of you, fill you up, and make you come so hard …" The easy thrusts were shock waves that multiplied the building energy, but Philip didn't care. For once, his own pleasure overrode his fears.

"Yes, fuck." This was just like his dream, this part where Clint took charge and made him do nothing but feel. "That's it. That's what I want."

"I can do that."

Philip let it happen, gave up and pushed back harder, meeting Clint as his thrusts grew faster and harder, internal sparks running up Philip's back along his arms. The first touch of Clint's hand on Philip's cock was enough to ignite the whole conflagration, and he was coming, vision going bright, body shaking as he loosed all the energy into the wood, grounding it into the stone floor. When he spiraled back into awareness, Clint was lying beside him, chest heaving, eyes closed. Philip waited for his heart to start beating evenly again, trying to think of what to say.

"Librarian?" His voice was scratchy, and he wondered what sounds he'd been making to leave him hoarse.

Lifting up on his elbows, Clint smirked. "Libraries require silence and anyone can walk by."

"Oh." That confession brought ideas to Philip's mind, but he tamped them down; sex might have made their marriage official but there was still so much to learn about each other. "Don't we need to inform Banner?"

With a groan, Clint got up; he picked up the robe from the floor and tossed it over to Philip before he pulled on his shirt and pants, leaving both undone, leather hanging low on his hips. Waiting until Philip was covered, he opened the door and ushered the clerk into the room.

"I'm sorry; I just have to ask a few questions." Banner unrolled the contract on the table and sat down a quill and ink. "Do you swear by the King's power and authority that this marriage has been consummated as required in the Writ of Succession?" They both said yes. "Do you disavow your right to annulment?" Again, they answered yes. "Good, if you'll just sign here." They both did and then Banner signed as a witness. "I'm supposed to give you a homily on the sacred nature of sex and the marital bed, but we'll just go with this: Marriage takes effort. Talk to each other. No one is perfect, so be willing to forgive mistakes. Compromise is the key to happiness. Sleeping around is never a good idea. Sex is a good thing and you should enjoy each other. That ought to take care of it."

"That's it?" Philip asked, surprised. He'd read about the lengths to which some clerks went to validate a marriage.

"Bloodstains or semen on the sheet are demeaning and old-school. No one can disprove your claim at this point and you've given up your right to argue for annulment, so why embarrass you?" Banner shrugged. "The Mayor has offered me a bed in his home, so I'm off to get some sleep. I'll stay until the paperwork is all complete and we know when or if the King is planning a visit."

"We need to keep him," Clint said after he'd shut the door. "I'll put a place for him on the list of things to do."

"Speaking of things to do," Philip responded; this was solid ground for him. "Where would you like me to start in the morning? I'll need to get the lay of the land and all, but a set of priorities would make it easier."

"Ah. I don't know." Clint ran his hand through his hair, already sticking up at odd angles. "The wall is first, but there's so much."

"The basics are always good. Food, warmth, a roof and four walls, safety." It needed to be Clint's choice; he was Lord Barton and his word carried more weight.

"Make sure we don't starve or freeze this winter. Let's start there." Clint eyed the bed. "We can share rooms and make do with bare walls as long as we have walls."

"I'm not averse to sharing, by the way. Done that many times. I do prefer the room colder with more quilts. And I like the right side, but will be happy with the left."

"I wasn't looking forward to the floor, so I can deal with that," Clint yawned. "Best put on something though. A full night's sleep is a rare thing around here; some people seem to think they have a right to barge in at all hours."

"That I understand completely." Philip picked up the long nightshirt still folded neatly. "I'll tell you about my brother Peter sometime. He likes to climb in my window and talk about his current crush in the dead of night."


	4. Trials and Old Friends

"There is no way I can handle a visit from the King!" The thin man with skin the color of ebony waved his spoon at Jessica; she was less than impressed by the tirade of angry words aimed her way. "You promised me help and all I've got is a handful of lay- abouts and those boys. And the food here? Bland. Spices! I need spices!" Jessica saw Philip in the doorway first; the cook turned and his dark brown eyes widened.

"Don't let me interrupt," Philip said smoothly. "I just wanted to see about breakfast. Something smelled good." He'd hazard a guess that the cook was from the Eastlands, his head shorn of all hair and wrapped in a white cloth. Tattoos ran down his neck, one a brightly colored pattern of swirls, the other the tail of a dragon that disappeared under the collar of his shirt. A dark band of black ink circled his left wrist.

"There's porridge with raisins and some honey if you like, Milord. It's plain, but filling." He tipped his head and dropped his eyes, confirming Philip's suspicion that the man had been an indentured servant at one time. In some part of the East, the poor sold themselves for contracted lengths of time; at the end, they would be freed and, in theory, earn a bonus to help them establish a new life. Of course, that all depended upon the owner of the contract, and the justicars often looked the other way at abuses.

"That would be perfect." Philip held out his hand for the filled bowl and took the honey pot in his other.

"An early riser?" The cook asked. "Clint will be dragging in once the sun is up; I best get the coffee ready. Man is addicted to the stuff, the darker, the better. Would you like a cup, Milord?"

"Indeed I would, but I like mine more cream than coffee." As vices went, coffee and wine and books were Philip's favorites.

"Leche manchada? I can do that. Cream, we have." He busied himself measuring out the ground beans; the aroma hit Philip's nose, and he breathed in deep of the eye-opening smell.

"This is Dax," Jessica said. "Best cook of the seventy companies. It was a coup when we talked him into joining us."

"Tell the truth now, miasha. Clint won me in a card game." Dax's smile was wide and warm; he was quite handsome, some part of Philip's brain registered. Not blonde haired, stormy blue-grey eyes handsome, but there was only one Clint Barton.

"Sounds like a story I'd love to hear someday." Philip spooned up a bite; it was warm and sweet from the honey, but not very exciting. "As to spices, I think I can help you with that. I know a Merchant who works out of the capitol, can get almost anything. He makes a run up this way every two months."

"Cumin? Tumeric? I'd kill for some cayenne or ghost chilies. I send those boys into town, and they come back with naught but chickens and potatoes and oats." He shook his head. "White flour and tough cuts of beef. Nothing I could serve the King, that's for sure. I made them a list for today, and they'll come back with the same things."

"Today is market day?" Philip thought about it for a moment; he had a hundred places to start here in the Manor, but there was something to be said for getting to know the townspeople and no better way than some shopping. "That sounds good to me. By boys, I assume you're talking about the pages-in-training?"

Jessica snorted at that. "More like troublemakers-in-training, those three. They're a handful."

"Tell you what. Make me a list of spices you want, and I'll send a letter off asking about the prices. In the meantime, I'll see what I can do about a better variety for now." Philip was already calculating in his head how much gold and silver from his stash to take with him. Best to start off paying up front and build a good reputation before asking for credit … and he needed to get to the books to see just what financial state the holding was in as soon as possible. "As to getting you help, that is top priority, but I wouldn't worry about the royal visit. The King always brings his own chefs with him and only eats food prepared by their hands. Too many times that leads to a pissing match between the royal cooks and the cooks of the keep. Best to just let them have at it; we don't have to foot the bill for his extravagances that way."

"Ah," Dax smiled. "I speak little English, yes? No understand, just cook."

"Exactly." Seems Clint surrounded himself with smart retainers; Dax had hit on the perfect solution. The King would be expecting a poor showing from the new and struggling Lord Barton. Why not use that to their advantage? "Now, what else do you need in the kitchen? I know about the missing silver; how are we set for pots and pans?"

It took close to half an hour and two cups of coffee before Philip was ready to go; the sun was over the horizon, and he spared a second to remember the way Clint had looked when he'd left him in bed, hair wild, face half-buried in a down pillow that he'd scrunched up between his crossed arms, the quilt caught around his hips. During the night, his shirt had ridden up, leaving a little bare strip of back with those delectable dips at the bottom of his spine. Philip had been so tempted to lean over and drop a kiss into each one of them, but he wasn't sure of the reception, so he'd slid out of bed, washed with the tepid water that no one had changed from the night before, dressed, gathered up his dirty clothes to find out how laundry worked around here, and left the room. Even now, he had yet to see anyone moving other than Dax, Jessica, Carol, and the early change of guards. Natasha, he'd learned from Carol, was a night person, rarely showing herself until long after sunrise; there were rumors that she actually didn't sleep which would explain how she knew everything about everyone. Clint would be in shortly, the rest of the troop, as well except for those who had the night watch, but the others, the ones Philip called camp followers, would sleep until well past noon. Tucking away the notion of meeting with all of them to discuss the issues, Philip rounded up two of the erstwhile pages plus a dog cart and headed off for the short but brisk walk into the town.

Most towns held weekly markets where locals brought their produce and products to sell and Frasierton was no exception. Three times, once during each season, there would be a bigger festival where other craftsmen and vendors set up stalls; people would come in from the outer farms and smaller villages, and there would be singing and dancing and all kinds of fun, according to Theodore and William, the two pages. Theodore was tall and bulky, a budding young warrior if ever Philip had seen one, shock of blond hair he'd cut into random hanks himself standing up at odd angles. He was an outgoing, friendly type, an easy smile on his face as he never stopped talking. William, on the other hand, was slight and dark-haired; he tended to let his friend ramble on, injecting every now and then, sometimes finishing Theodore's thoughts. Only six months separated them in age and, according to the story that never seemed to end, they'd been together since before Clint and company found them, pickpockets on a Kingston street, bound for either an orphanage or prison, neither a happy prospect. They really didn't remember a time when they weren't a pair. The elusive Nathan, the third boy, had been nowhere to be found; Philip made a mental note to seek him out later.

He was pleased to find an already busy market area in the center of town, stalls overflowing this early with the best of the harvest. Zeroing in on an apple seller, he sighted some winesap that looked ripe and delicious. The woman behind the counter watched him approach and the gossip network began its work, sharing the news that the brand new married Lord of the Manor was here, just what Philip wanted. As soon as his interest became clear, the woman smiled.

"Apples are good this year. Make the best pies, if I may say so, Milord." She was older, in her forties; a younger woman behind her, probably her daughter, bounced a baby on her hip. Both of them inclined their heads towards Philip.

"Indeed they do." He picked one up, sniffed the winey aroma, felt the rough red skin. "Where are they from?"

"Our groves are north of here, near Grays House. Been growing apples for five generations now; Lord Barton used to come up when he was a boy. He and his brother would climb the trees, I remember." She smiled and passed a greenish-yellow apple each over to Theodore and William who tore into them with delight despite having had two bowls of porridge before they left. "About the same ages as these two, I reckon."

"Gentlemen," Philip prodded, giving them a stern glance.

"Thanks," Theodore mumbled.

"Thank you," William said with his mouth full.

"Let's see," he pretended to do some quick calculations even though he knew exactly how much he needed. "Let's say a good half a bushel of the winesap for pies and an extra half of the pippins for eating. Do you ever sell the bruised fruit?"

"You thinking dried apples or apple butter?" She picked up a Macintosh. "These are best for drying and the pippins and winesaps mixed make excellent butter or jam. We sell the dross by the bushel starting in the next week or so depending upon the maturation of the crop."

"What price are we talking?" It was the first volley, and they both knew it.

"Well, mine are the best apples in the whole area, so quality comes at a cost, of course." She rattled off prices that Philip knew were inflated for here, but were still far less than he would have paid closer to the capital, and waited for his reaction.

Wrinkling his forehead, he drew out the silence for a few seconds. "Well, that's more than I expected, but maybe we could do …." He offered almost half of what she had originally said, but tossed in a standing order for the bruised portion for the rest of the season.

Her eyes brightened, approval clear, and the daughter stepped back to give her mother room to haggle … and to pass along the news that the new Lord was not a pushover. The back and forth lasted four rounds before Philip pulled out his pouch and mentioned he was paying today. Numbers fell fast and they settled on a more than fair price by anyone's estimation. As she filled a basket with their purchases, she said, "It's been a pleasure, Milord. And may I say welcome to Frasierton."

"Thank you …"

"Madge. Tell young Clint that I said hello and not to eat so many he gets sick." She passed the full basket off to Theodore who ran off with it to put in the cart.

"I certainly will, Madge."

"Oh, and Milord?" She called as he turned to go. "Hammond's squash looks extra fine this year; he'll do you right."

That was the best stamp of approval Philip could get, and he knew it. "Thank you. Squash soup on the menu it is."

Hammond turned out to be a bluff, balding man with a hearty laugh and some green acorn squash that would bake up nicely and could be used as bowls. He sent Phil on to the Dawsons who had frost-kissed sweet cabbages, and Martha, a young widow raising five kids on her own, who had artichokes and eggplants. From there, he spoke to the farmer who raised the best local lamb and checked on the standing orders for milk, butter, and cheeses, picking a few new types to try. Tucked back in a side street, he found some immigrants from the Southlands who had a selection of fresh peppers and garlic. He made sure to get their names for Dax, especially when they said they'd love to plant what he needed and bring their goods straight to the kitchen door. Herbs by the bunches, wheat flour, and even some different oils were all available. Along the way, he wrangled Theodore and William, keeping them busy waiting on packages to be ready and toting them back to the cart. Nothing he wasn't used to; Peter and Darcy on a good day at that age were much more demanding. These two tended to rein each other in, whole conversations happening without a word between them.

Beyond the foodstuffs, he was learning about the community, listening to them, answering their questions. It was a mutual information swap completed in innocent queries and intentionally revealed half-truths. He heard more than once about the attack yesterday and the way Clint and the others rode to the rescue, relief evident that Clint was protecting them. Talk of the rugars led to other problems – a pack of gimlets, missing flocks, unexplained noises in the night, and roving wolves – and all sorts of theories for why it was happening including bad weather, a sorcerer's curse, and a mountain dwelling ghost who demanded payments in form of music, his personal favorite. They were worried, still affected by the events of two years ago, and Philip believed they had every right to be. As much as he learned from them, they wanted to know about him. Rather than try to insist the marriage was a love match, he let them fill in the blanks, a story quickly emerging about Lord Fury making arrangements to help Clint take care of them by sending Philip. As he moved into the artisans section of the market, he heard he was already rebuilding the manor and the tale was growing with each stop he made. By the time they found themselves at the tanner's booth, Philip had a good idea on names, relationships, families, and reputations of the whole town.

Theodore eyed a red and green braided bracelet as Philip ordered new jackets for all three pages, black with bright purple edging for livery, and a vest of thick, cured leather to replace the one Clint lost yesterday, measurements to be sent back down with one of the boys. The black leather was soft and supple, and, on a whim, Philip went for a fancier pattern, a formal jacket with the same purple trim. After all, he hadn't given Clint a wedding gift yet. If he had it made sleeveless to show off Clint's arms, well, no one needed to know that was the reason why. The tanner was happy to oblige, talking Philip into a jacket for himself by offering a nice discount and agreeing to send a bill. Philip's pouch was growing light, but he still had enough to cover the costs; the willingness to take his promised payment was a first tentative step towards building trust.

The sun was high in the sky when Philip spotted a familiar curly brown head of hair; Banner was shopping at the herb seller, picking through the varieties offered. "Ah," Banner said when he saw Philip. "Quite a nice selection. Some very rare kingsfoil and excellent lavender." He stopped to smell some rosemary before adding it to the stack of purchases. "I hear you've been busy this morning."

"I'm a new commodity, it seems." He kept one eye on the boys; they were getting restless standing around. "Have you had lunch, Banner? I saw some lovely meat pies just a street over."

"The mayor suggested the apple and pork pasty. A local specialty. And please, call me Bruce."

Philip looked around Bruce and saw a man pass with a steaming moon shaped pastry. Turning towards the boys, he held out a half-silver coin in each hand. "Theodore, I want you to buy two mugs of cider, and William, two of those meat pies you were drooling over. Whatever you have left, you can spend or keep. After you eat, I want you to take the cart back to Dax before noon and get started unloading."

"Yes sir!" Theodore said, snatching the coin.

"Yes, Milord," William answered, taking his more slowly, turning it over, staring at it. Then they were gone in a flash into the crowd.

"You know they're going to eat themselves sick with sweet rolls," Bruce laughed.

"Maybe. William, I think, might save part of his, but they are growing boys, and they worked hard this morning."

They spent a good five minutes picking out their pasty; the seller, a woman about Philip's age with dark hair who never stopped moving, gave them a free mug of ale to wash it down despite Philip's protests. She was bribing Clerk Banner to stay in town, she argued, not the new Lord. Banner had blushed at that, hemming and hawing a little before he said thank you and took the offering. Philip knew that Carol had seen to it that Banner was paid for his part in the marriage validation, but most clerks, especially those who lived alone in the woods, weren't the wealthiest of men. Then she added shredded cheese on top of the pasty still hot from the grease before she passed them over. Tables scattered around the fountain in the main square were filled to the brim with people eating or talking. An older male fiddler was playing a fast tune, accompanied by a woman on the lute, their voices mixing together for the verses of a song about a man who challenged the fairy king. As they stood looking for an empty seat, a heavyset man with flaming ginger hair waved them over to his table squeezed into the corner beside the bakery.

"Bruce!" he called. "Come sit with us."

"That's Mayor Garrett," Bruce said, hesitating, waiting to see what Philip wanted to do.

"Ah, good, the Mayor." Philip smiled and nodded, leading the way through the crowd. "Just the person I was hoping to see." He put the pasty and mug down on the table and sat down on the bench so the others could be seated as well.

"Lord Barton, it's good so see you out and about this morning. I hope you found all that you were looking for." Garrett was a big man, muscle more than fat, and he had green eyes that missed nothing. Young for such a position, or maybe just one of those people who looked years younger than he was, he looked to be in his early twenties. Philip, on the other hand, had been mistaken as an adult since he was fourteen.

"You have a thriving community here and quite a selection to pick from. I look forward to the Fall Festival in a few weeks," Philip replied.

"This year's is shaping up to be larger and even better. The Admiral's Players have confirmed and McKennitt will be here on Saturday evening. The craftsmen list is growing every day." Garret made no secret of his interest in Philip, looking him over. "We hope Lord Barton will attend of course, and perhaps be the judge for the games?"

"I'm sure he'll be delighted." Philip took a bite of his lunch; tender pork with crisp apples, just a touch of cinnamon and light gravy all in fried dough. "Oh, this is …"

"Wonderful, yes. Annamarie is the best. Learned everything she knows from her mother. She could run the town if she wanted to." With a smile, Garrett sat back, tossing out the piece of information for free. "Her mother was the Chatelaine of the Manor." He didn't have to continue with the story; Philip already knew the ending. Carol had told him the story about the last stand, how the remaining thanes and retainers had barricaded the wall and stood their ground to give the townspeople time to flee; they'd all been killed, but their sacrifice had saved many other lives.

"Mayor," Two men stopped by the table. "Markeson is up to his old tricks again. Got his kid running interference this time. He'll listen to you."

"You'll need to be careful approaching her, though," Garrett continued as he stood, just like they were in the middle of a conversation. "She's worried about her daughters. I told her that things had changed, that you ran a tight ship, but she's going to want to wait and see."

"Please let the townsfolk know we have numerous positions to fill. Three days hence, in the main hall," Philip said. A big smile broke across Garrett's face.

"Of course, Milord. I know many who'll be there."

"The man is unique, I'd say .Didn't even ask, just told me about a cottage with a space for a workshop just outside of town," Bruce offered, chasing a bite down with a swig of ale. "What did he mean about her daughters?"

"A fighting company is very different a manor household. She wants to make sure there are no … other expectations of the jobs," he answered, phrasing the situation delicately.

"So sex isn't a requirement to work there? I can see why that distinction would be important." Bruce's humor was quick and made Philip smile. There was something easy about the clerk's company; they sat and ate, watching the people come and go in a companionable silence. Numerous stares were directed their way, but Philip was getting used to that.

"Did you see a tinker or a metalsmith?" Philip asked as he took his last bite.

"Two streets over that way," Bruce pointed as they both stood up. "By the blacksmith's place."

"You'll come to dinner at the manor? Apple pie's on the menu."

"At least you're subtle about it." Bruce nodded. "I'll see you there."

The tinker's wagon was parked in the outer yard of the blacksmith's work area, wooden benches weighted down with wares that ranged from iron skillets to delicate scrollwork on belt buckles. Chainmail hung from the rafters, silverware and goblets in the shop with the wide open door. The dark skinned man by the wagon was in deep conversation with a young woman and her besotted beau; she held a lovely pin in her fingers, turning it over and over, as the two men negotiated price. They settled far too quickly … the lover couldn't keep his eyes of the golden curls and curve of the ivory face … but the price was fair. Philip waited patiently for them to conclude business, more than surprised to recognize the tinker.

"Philip Coulson!" Samuel tilted his head and grinned. "And here I find you much further north than I would ever have expected."

"Stop playing coy, Sam. I'm sure you know more than I do about my change in status." He gladly returned Sam's hearty hug, glad to see a familiar face. "And that's My Lord to you now."

"Oh, married a day and already gone to your head." Sam pushed Philip back and turned to shout over his shoulder. "Luke! Come meet the newest Lord Barton." The man who came out from behind the anvil, wearing only pants and a heavy canvas apron, was much larger than the lean Sam, powerful arms capable of swinging a hammer, face sweaty from the heat of the fire. "My cousin, Luke. Luke, Philip Coulson."

"Milord," Luke inclined his head. "Sam has told me how lucky we are to have you." Closer up, Luke was even more impressive, muscles well defined and hands calloused and capable.

"I didn't even know you had a cousin," Philip felt a little caught out. Twice, Philip had traveled with Sam, using the anonymity of the visiting Tinker to collect information and learn about problems. In all that time sitting on the front of the wagon, Sam had never mentioned any family.

"I've only been here just over a year now. I came … after," Luke said, not needing to finish the sentence. "Town's done right by me. I get a good trade and even have time to meddle with some more decorative work. Mighty thankful for the opportunity."

"Luke's strong, no question, but he's also got a deft eye. Ladies in other towns are starting to request his work when I come through." Sam playfully slapped his cousin on the back. "You should order some for the Manor. I hear you might need replacement items."

"You heard that did you?" Philip narrowed his eyes; Sam somehow always knew every detail. If he wasn't so handy at fixing things, he'd be an exceptional spy fulltime instead of just on an as-needed basis.

"Seems the Frasier silver disappeared during the destruction of the manor. Or it up and walked out during the fight. One or the other." Damn it, Sam knew something. "I have some basic utensils I can sell you now, but Luke here could make you a set that you'll want to pass on to your children once you two love birds chose some."

"I'd be honored to make whatever you need." Luke glared at Sam who fell silent but kept grinning. "Serving pieces, spoons … and I make high quality chainmail too if you need some. I've been helping outfit the guard for Thane Danvers."

"Actually, I have two lists. The first one," Philip gave it to Luke, "is what we need as soon as possible. Some of the copper can be replated but it's in constant use so we'll have to rotate what we send. The second list is longer term; Lord Barton would pick the design and have final say, of course."

Luke handed the first list to Sam who scanned over it. "Between the two of us, most of this we can have delivered by this afternoon."

"I can have samples by early next week," Luke offered. "Sooner if need be."

"Next week is fine." Philip was just glad things were moving as smoothly as they were.

"I see you've found the best armorer in the area," Natasha said from behind him. Even Sam jumped at her appearance, and Sam was very aware of his surroundings. "Pots and pans for Dax? He'll be so pleased, and I'll be happy to hear the end of his griping."

"Back again, Thane Romanov? Tell me you haven't brought more mail for me to mend. I have a reputation to maintain, you know, and you manage to find new ways to challenge me." Luke's narrowed gaze was enough to give most men pause, but Natasha simply sauntered over to the table of wares and smiled.

"Nothing today. I came to say hello to your cousin and see what he's picked up in his travels." Natasha was just as eager to hear what Sam had to tell. Spy indeed, Philip thought. "And I'm looking for Lord Philip here. Thane Danvers has an appointment with him this afternoon."

Philip knew nothing about an appointment, but he wasn't going to let Luke or Sam know that. Second rule of a good steward, always pretend you have all the information. "I was just about to invite Sam and Luke to the Manor to join us for dinner."

"Perfect!" Sam declared despite Luke's obvious misgivings written on his furled brow. "I have new stories to tell from my swing through the foothills and northern reaches of Stark and Barton lands. And I'd love to meet the man who captured Philip Coulson."

Another group of customers wandered in, one lugging a plow's head and another with some scissors and knives to be sharpened, so Philip followed Natasha out of the yard and back towards the manor, speaking to those he remembered and anyone who spoke to him, nodding to others, aware of Natasha's growing amusement. She didn't speak until they were out of the city proper and on the long curving road that lead up the hill.

"So, it is true. Sam knows everyone."

"He often circles through Tarian holdings. A good tinker is an important man to know." Philip agreed, certain Natasha was aware of Sam's many other attributes. "His father was a handy man to know; Sam was lucky to inherit both his father's moral compass and his mother's brains." He followed as she veered off to the left, moving not to the Manor but towards the practice grounds. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"To test your mettle, Philip Coulson. Members of the company have to be able to hold their own and serve in various capacities. Carol wants to test your abilities, see what training you need." Natasha was deadly serious, no joking tone in her voice. "These are not the soft lands near the capital. We can all die at the end of a set of claws as easily as a sword around here. Carol takes her job as head of the guard seriously."

He could only answer with a curt nod, her blunt words welcome. "I am more than capable of protecting myself, but I understand the need to show that to others." His eyes surveyed the mountains in the distance, clouds collected around the uppermost slopes, shrouding the heights in mist. "Some are aware of the danger growing closer to the Midlands."

"The people here need protecting; they're the front line of the coming war," Natasha agreed.

Philip started to answer, but he was distracted as the practice field came into view. Half a dozen targets were set up and archers were taking aim and firing, not from a standing position but at a dead run; they started forward in a sprint, closing the distance, firing as they went, stopping within five feet of the circle. He'd never seen anything like it.

"Watch your footing, Mikal! You trip and you'll find an arrow in your throat faster than the sword in your gut. Peters, get that quiver strap fixed before you hurt yourself." Clint called out orders to a few others, praising them all for their accuracy; Philip was surprised to see how many of the arrows had hit their targets, albeit not in the center, but in battle any wound could buy time and throw off an opponent. "We're going to try the roll and shoot again. Three at a time." The guard, all of them except for the wounded Johnson who sat on the sidelines, Jessica and Carol included, groaned and complained but they lined up, bows at the ready.

"They all shoot?" Philip asked Natasha.

"We train on all weapons, but each has two specialties. Depth is important in a company this small," she answered. "I assume you brought your own weapons; shall I send one of the boys to fetch them?"

"If you would. They're in my … our room."

She called Theodore over from where he was helping retrieve arrows and sent him up the hill. Philip saw the leather bracelet dangling from the boy's wrist and pretended not to notice when Theodore tucked it up under his cuff.

"Show us how it's done again, Clint," Jessica asked, her voice rising above the others. "One shot I can see, but three?"

Clint glared at her, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face. "You want to bet on that?"

"A silver says you can't make more than three," she shot back, and a quick bidding war ensued, the pot growing quickly as others called out their bets. Carol took six, the highest number of the batch.

"If I get seven, the pot's mine?" Clint asked. Jessica nodded and the company murmured their disbelief.

Clint turned and Philip got his first good look today at his husband. Blonde hair fell over one eye, skin tanned in the light of the afternoon autumn sun, quilted vest belted around his trim waist, arms left bare but for an arm guard on his right and a shooter's glove on his left hand. As he stepped to the line, Clint shook his shoulders, loosening his stance; his eyes closed briefly as he took in a long, slow breath and released it, easy, his hawk-like stare on the target ahead. Extending his left arm, he drew the string with his right hand – and muscles flexed and shifted along his forearm, up through his biceps, shoulders straightening and neck exposed as he sighted down the line of his draw.

Lust sucker punched Philip in his gut, driving every bit of air out of his lungs and draining blood from his head right into his cock at the sight of those arms. He fought the moan that came from the back of his throat, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed to keep the sound inside. No way he could stop the flush that spread up his chest and into his face as memories of the night before rose in his mind's eye. Those hands wrapped around his body, the feel of those arms holding him down as Clint fucked him. He'd never felt anything as intense as this, not for anyone. The power of the emotion called to the energy banked inside, stirring it up as well.

Then, Clint moved, and Philip forgot to breathe all together. In the span of one heartbeat, Clint drew two arrows … two … and they flew towards the target, one after the other, in the time he took one step. Between step two and three, two more arrows; Philip thought only a mechanical crossbow could fire that fast, much less a longbow, but Clint made it look easy, tucking one arrow in as quickly as the string reset, before the vibration of the one before it stopped. Mesmerized by Clint's body, the way his muscles bunched and released, how he flowed from one movement to the next, Philip saw him dip and go down, tucking his head and protecting both bow and quiver, shoulder not even touching the ground, his body flipping over. Arrow number five was notched and ready before a foot came down; Clint fired it without even looking at the target, the sixth following hard on its heels, gone just as Clint was upright. Just one more step remained before the finish line; two arrows drew back together, flew straight and the company erupted in cheers as Clint pivoted on his heel and gave a grand bow. Philip couldn't take his eyes off of Clint's body, his smile, or his arms. What he'd just seen was impossible; he understood the mechanics of archery, had read many books on it thanks to his obsession with a legendary archer, and he knew there was no way anyone could do what Clint just did.

"Breathe, Phil," Natasha murmured. Blinking, he tore his eyes away and looked at the target. The eight arrows spiraled out from the dead center in a perfect seashell design.

"Fuck," Phil whispered, so hard the seam in his pants was tightly uncomfortable.

"He's showing off for you, you know," Natasha confided. "Still, that's the best I've seen him in a long while. Let's go on over and put you out of your misery, shall we?"

…

It started as an itch in his collar, right at the base of his neck, the tiniest inconvenience that made him want to scratch as he watched the company run through their drill one more time. He shrugged, moved the neckline of the quilted vest he was wearing, but the sensation only grew until it was an awareness like a physical touch, as if someone was caressing the nape of his neck. Some of the men believed Clint had eyes in the back of his head, and that wasn't all too far from the truth; his ability to see in a wider arc, sharper, even in the dark, was a fact few people knew. He knew when he was being watched, but this was different, more intimate; the strangest thought that someone was thinking about him surfaced. Then Clint saw Natasha and Philip standing just down the road and that knowledge made the tingle become full blown arousal.

He paused, took a deep breath, and let the song of his bow sing to him as he pulled back the string; he felt his muscles vibrate in harmony like they always did, a two-part rhythm that fit together like the arrow notched onto the string. Only this time, there was another note, deep, the bottom of the chord, so faint he could have dreamed it. He shifted his weight, his heart slowed, matching the thrum of the string … and then pushed off, the first two arrows gone before he breathed again, focused not on the target but the point where the notes came together to make a whole song. The world spun around him, not the reverse, and he reached out for the new tone, drew it in, and the last two arrows flew to the conclusion.

What exactly had just happened, Clint couldn't say, just that he was suddenly consumed by thoughts of Philip watching him. He barely knew the man (pink lips around his cock, moist heat, strong pull as he slid back), had just met him the day before (tongue delving, sweeping over his teeth, tangling and retreating), and there was no reason to worry about what Philip thought (so tight, so good, hands extended, gripping the headboard as moans cascaded out of his mouth). He had to shake himself to clear his head; Carol was slapping him on the back and the others were all talking at the same time. Jessica was grinning and he knew he had to say something.

"What's the take, Jess?" He asked.

"Fourteen silver, milord," she answered, her not so subtle way of reminding him of his new position.

"Tell me, Philip," he tossed back over his shoulder "What will fourteen silver buy us for dinner?"

"I'll send word for a casket of that lovely honey hard cider Madge makes. Should go well with the apple pie Dax is making for desert."

The others roared their approval as Clint turned to find Philip, his face flushed, eyes darkened even greener with lust. The warmth spiraled, circled its way down Clint's spine in response. "I think it's your turn, Philip."

"Where do you want me?" Philip eyes widened slightly as he realized what he'd said.

"Here's good," Clint couldn't stop himself from answering.

"Swords first?" Philip tried to continue but fell silent.

It was Carol who stepped in. "How are you with a bow? We can start with that until Teddy gets back."

"Passable, but after that display, I'm afraid I can't measure up. Better with a crossbow than a longbow," Philip admitted. Carol nodded and a black-haired female fighter picked one up off the rack and passed it over. A well-used crossbow, tiller oak and crank worn with a smooth action, it fit easily in his hand. Walking over, he lined up for a target, took a stance and lifted the bow.

"Hold," Carol said. "Clint?"

This was their usual method of testing; she'd defer to Clint's opinion on the bow, Natasha's on hand-to-hand, and Jessica's on strategy and style. Carol was the best swordsman, but she was smart enough to know to rely upon the others' strengths as well. So he circled Philip, checked his body position, nudged his elbow up higher, and straightened his shoulders before stepping up behind him, leaving barely an inch between them as Clint sighted down the tiller. Close enough to feel the heat of Philip's skin and to sense the rise and fall of his chest. "Classical position, three/two hold … you learned from a professional, probably from the capital. Best Fury could find, eh?"

"Captain of the King's Guard. Kenneth, not Donaldson," Philip admitted. From here, Clint could see Phil's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed, track the tiny bead of sweat that rolled along Phil's jaw.

"Go on, let's see how you shoot." He didn't move back, hoping he was as distracting to Philip as Philip was to him. Philip huffed, cranked the string back, loaded a bolt and took his time aiming before he fired. The bolt hit the center circle, not in the exact middle, but a good first try. "Again." He trailed a hand down Philip's arm, corrected the horizontal line, and let his fingers brush Philip's bare wrist. The second shot was close to the first, and the third as well. "You lead to the left; ever shot with your lens on?"

Philip looked surprised. "No. I mean, I assumed I wouldn't have them in battle."

"True, but if you were on a battlement as support, they might mean the difference between wounding and a kill shot," he suggested as he turned to Carol. "Crossbow is up to standards."

"Okay, let's see how you are on swords." Carol had her sword out and stepped into the middle of the field; all the others had gathered on the side and people were coming out of the Manor, a few even wandering up from town to watch. Theodore had returned, Philip's matching set of short swords in his hands. Clint went to stand by Natasha, a tangled knot of arousal and anxiety in his gut, as if he could sense Philip's own nerves despite his unflappable demeanor. Watching as Philip took off his jacket and shirt and shrugged on a quilted vest for protection, Clint could hear the undercurrent of excited murmurs. The swords he drew out were well-used, not just show pieces, and the way Philip carried himself showed all the hallmarks of a seasoned fighter. As Carol took her place, a hush fell as they all waited.

Sparring was not the same as real fighting. Clint had seen many a person who knew all the correct moves and could take all the points in a match, but there were no rules in battle, no applause for style, just being the first one to strike and the last one alive. Carol never approached training the way fancy instructors did; she lashed out, not a feint, but a swing with strength behind it. Philip countered with one sword, bringing the second around underneath, aiming for Carol's midsection … and the battle was joined. Carol was power, harsh strokes that drove weaker opponents backwards, wearing them down until they made a mistake and left an opening. Philip was fluid movements, two places at once, swords flashing, and hypnotic. He kept the fight on his own terms rather than letting her set the agenda. Carol took a step, changed her strategy, pulling back and going on defense, and they fell into testing each other, trying new techniques to see the response. At a point, Carol laughed.

"Fury truly has someone to teach Florentine?" she asked.

"I preferred dimacheraeri though," Philip answered, and he went on the attack, broad overhand strokes that needed both Carol's sword and her buckler to deflect. Sweating now, no talk, they got serious, and Clint had trouble following the trading blows. He held his breath as they moved across the field, seemingly intent on killing each other. Focusing in on Philip, Clint was mesmerized by the effortless way the man moved, so graceful and fluid … and his brain immediately pictured ways to use that talent for more pleasurable goals. His cock hardened as he let his mind spin a little fantasy with those swords and Philip's naked body. Then it was over, Carol's strength not lagging; Philip stepped back and lowered his swords.

"Oh, thank the gods," she laughed between breaths. "I thought you wanted to keep going. Definitely rated for combat with my full support."

Natasha whispered. "I almost came just from watching that."

"You and Carol both, I imagine." Both women found skill arousing, but they were especially drawn to men who respected their strength as well.

Philip was surrounded by well-wishers, and Clint stayed back. All morning Clint had heard Philip's name; he'd pretended to be asleep when Philip woke, playing coward to avoid an awkward morning conversation, waiting to rise until after the sun was up. First stop, the kitchen and Dax was singing, happy to fill Clint in on the new pots and pans and spices Philip had promised. Then he'd come across a despondent Nathan, upset that he'd missed the chance to go to town with the others. Clint's next point of order was to ride another section of the wall, checking the foundations and marking the worst damage; for a bit, his morning was quiet and normal, but then Jessica joined him with Carol's plan for the afternoon's training with Philip. Lunch was more than the usual chunk of bread and cheese; Theodore and William had returned, full of stories about their adventure, sugar from sweet rolls clinging to their worn tunics. And yet none of it had prepared Clint for watching the man he'd married stand toe-to-toe with the best damn swordswoman Clint had ever seen and hold his own. Hell, Clint would be hard-pressed to defeat Carol if it ever came to that; he'd have to go for the distance shot and hope she didn't get within weapons range. Philip, on the other hand, wouldn't win any awards with a bow, but his two-handed fighting style was versatile and elegant … and sexy. Even now, Clint was stirred up, and he knew he was staring at Philip's bare arms, thinking of that sweaty neck beneath his lips

"Oh please," Natasha sighed. "Come on." She caught his arm and made her way through the crowd; Philip looked his way and Clint almost stumbled at the intensity of the desire there. "I think we can wait until tomorrow for my chance," she said to cover the rather awkward moment of silence. "Clint said you needed to speak to him about the ledgers and accounts?"

It took a few seconds for Philip to process that statement. "Yes. Assuming you want me to help with those? I'd be glad to, of course."

"Help? No, you can have them!" Jessica replied. "I'm more than happy to pass those wiggly lines off to someone else."

"Jess is good with numbers, but not so good with sitting indoors for hours," Carol supplied, grinning fondly at the black-haired woman. "Natasha has been handling the contracts and other official missives."

"A task I won't miss either," the red head proclaimed. "Philip can get you to pay attention to the details, and I won't have to threaten to kill you quite so often." She nudged Clint with her shoulder.

"Thank you, ladies, I think we can manage from here." Clint tried to see the humor in the situation; at least Philip was getting bullied by them as well. "Shall we?"

Stopping to pick up his shirt and jacket, Philip carried them with his sword belt as they started to the manor. The training yard was a meadow at the bottom of the rise; the remains of other smaller outbuildings wound around the small hill. A guardhouse where the men used to barrack in a dozen or so rooms. A gardener's cottage, storage for the stables, and even a small chapel were little more than rectangles of fallen stones.

"I know some architects and stone masons who would be interested in the work. If you wish, I could contact them to come give us an appraisal. The guardhouse, the roof of the main hall, weatherproofing the existing parts of the house and the stables would be first priority, unless you think otherwise." Philip was always so tentative, Clint noticed, deferring to his judgment. It was a shame that Clint knew next to nothing about what he was doing.

"You don't have to do that," he told Philip, slowing down to turn towards him. "You've run a large holding, know what to do, how to make sure it's done well. That's all I ask."

"It's important for your company and the people here to know you're the Lord of the Manor," Philip replied. "I'm not one of them; they want to respect you and are grateful you've returned."

"Natasha would have told me to buck up and be a man. You're much more eloquent about it," Clint laughed since both amounted to the same piece of advice. "She likes you, by the way. I think she'd even consider having sex with you."

Philip's eyebrows rose at that; Clint already liked poking at Phil's self-control. "Unfortunately, as much I find her to be a lovely woman, I'm more of a cock man, myself."

"I think I got that last night," Clint said with a slow smile.

He wasn't sure who made the first move, who grabbed who and dragged them inside the apothecary hut with its walls and half roof. They were walking one moment, and then they were entwined, mouths connected, tongues sliding in, hands splayed on backs, hips snug against hips. The shock of cock slotting next to cock, friction sending little sparks of lust, overwhelmed Clint; he needed, needed to touch, to fill, to release. The heat in his groin exploded as Philip's hands settled around Clint's biceps, squeezing tight as he arched up and ground his cock alongside Clint's.

"I need … I need …" Philip was groaning into Clint's mouth then Clint's knee came up between Philip's legs and he rubbed shamelessly against the leather. Sparks traveled down Clint's arms; he grounded his hands on Philip's shoulders, pushing him back against the rock for leverage, and they were a circle, clicking closed, containing the passion between them. It flowed back and forth, building quickly, hotter, stronger until Clint could hear it again, the hum of tones in harmony.

Philip bucked, his head falling back against the wall and a pulse of energy slammed into Clint. He whispered "Phil" against the pale expanse of neck, just before he came, his climax intense and quick. As he came back to himself, he dropped his hands and link was broken; he could hear distant voices outside, the sounds of steel clashing on the practice field.

"Sixteen," Philip said. "You'd think I was still sixteen. Someone could have heard or seen us."

"That's why it's exciting," Clint laughed, stepping back and avoiding a broken table. "The fear of getting caught. Although I really don't have that many pair of clean pants, so next time we should try to get naked."

"Oh, laundry. That's something else I need to check on." Philip tried to cover the obvious stain with his vest.

"Let's start with the books, shall we? That's bad enough for one day." Clint hated bookkeeping, truly hated it. Well, at least he'd had gotten off twice in the last 24 hours, so staring at little numbers on a page would be bearable for a bit.

"If it helps, there's squash soup and lamb for dinner?" Philip offered.

"Apple pie and Dax's lamb?" Clint thought about it. "Yes. That just might do."


	5. Itches and Dreams

The Hall smelled of cinnamon and roast lamb; Clint looked out over the people assembled there as Theodore and William circulated around the tables with laden platters of food. Nathan dashed about with a pitcher, contents sloshing over the top in his haste. Dax had just looked in, checking on the progress, and he'd been smiling from ear-to-ear. Taking another spoonful of the brilliant orange soup, Clint carved out a piece of the squash from the side just as Theodore set down a fragrant dish of carved meat and roasted vegetables.

"Dax is back in his element," Natasha said from her place on Clint's right. She always sat on his right to free his dominant left hand in case of an attack, covering his weaker side. "All we need is some pita bread and it's like being back in the islands."

"I've never been that far south," Philip said from Clint's right, slicing into his portion. "I've read about the outer islands, but nothing speaks about the delicious food."

"The food in Juraz is so hot, only milk will cool your mouth," Samuel offered from his place on the other side of Philip. "Ghost chilies, tiny little red peppers, they use. Saw someone rub his eyes after touching one. He cried for two days."

"Dax asked for some of those. Thanks for the warning." Philip was smiling at Samuel, open and friendly, clearly at ease; his blue-green eyes were warm as he looked at the other man, and a little spark ignited in Clint's brain. After they'd cleaned up earlier, Clint had gone back to talk to Carol about guard schedules, leaving Philip in the study with a stack of red ledgers and a long list of messages to pen. When Clint came down for dinner, feeling quite content, almost like he was beginning to get his first clue on this new life, he'd been surprised to see Samuel and Luke. Banner had been welcome; the man a quiet presence despite the fact Clint should be embarrassed around him; there was something about the clerk that made him fade into the woodwork and go unnoticed. The others had been nothing but polite and respectful; Clint quickly realized that Samuel was one of Natasha's informants, and Luke was the blacksmith who was keeping their armor and weapons in the best condition they'd been in years. Still, the familiarity between Samuel and Philip was unexpected and, if Clint was honest, a little troubling. How much did he really know about Philip Coulson?

"I've known Phil for years; I can tell you all his secrets," Samuel had said as they sat down at the table. "Trust me, you're a lucky man, Lord Barton. Phil's one-of-a-kind." Clint had smiled in return and laughed when Philip told a story about Samuel, a pretty young lady, and an iron skillet. But an itch settled between his shoulder blades, distracting him from the delicious food in front of him.

"I'm heading north for a few weeks before winter sets in," Samuel was saying. "I've got a bolt of yellow silk for Melinda McCarter and new pipe work for Leo Huskey's latest invention. Plus, Old Man Singer always buys unusual books, and I found a trunk full of the strangest texts at an estate sale; I promised him first choice." Clint took a bite of his lamb and focused in on the information rather than the casual tone, pushing the strange ache away.

"Melinda's still wearing yellow?" He remembered her from his youth; the McCarters were one of the oldest retainers in the holding. There had been a McCarter at the founding of Frasierton, and they had been the first family to renew their oath when Clint took the title of Lord. Richard, the current Laird of the clan, had ridden down that first week with his two oldest sons, stayed a few days, and drank all the ale Clint had on hand before he headed back to his home.

"A McCarter never forgets," Samuel agreed.

"Yellow?" Philip asked.

"When Melinda married Richard, his mother took an instant dislike to her. That's McCarter tradition, I understand; the worst mother-in-laws. Melinda's from a wealthy family near the capital and she is short, round, and the sweetest woman anyone would want to meet. First winter festival, her mother-in-law gave her the ugliest yellow satin dress, knowing it wouldn't flatter her. Melinda wore it with pride and took to wearing yellow all the time, smiling and being as happy as you please. Dame McCarter never forgave her, but she eventually stopped bothering Melinda." Clint cleaned his plate and thought about a second helping, then decided to wait on the pie.

Natasha said, "Sounds like a woman after my own heart."

"Are you planning a progress, milord?" Samuel asked. It was tradition for a new Lord to visit his retainers within his first year, but most of them didn't inherit a hold with so many immediate needs to oversee.

"Eventually," Clint hedged. He really hadn't thought that far ahead. "Spring at the earliest. The roads can be treacherous in winter." The itch was spreading up into his neck, causing an ache at the base of his skull.

"We'd appreciate it if you let us know any issues you run across," Philip said smoothly. "Are you coming back this way or heading on to Stark territory?"

"Stark has invited me to winter there, but I'm thinking of staying with Luke, helping out with some commissions."

Luke looked up from his conversation with Jessica at the mention of his name. "You can go on to Stark's. I know you enjoy the use of his workshop. I'll be fine."

"You'd be welcome here," Philip offered. The pain bounced up to Clint's temples, and he winced.

"Pie!" Theodore brought out the warm slices and began placing them in front of everyone. Glad for something to do, Clint ate, the comforting taste a reminder of his youth, days spent climbing trees and gorging on the crisp fruit. The happy memory settled him, and he polished off the desert without speaking, the conversation flowing around him. Twice, Philip's elbow bumped his – he was right-handed to Clint's left – and each touch jostled him with little bounces of energy. Pushing his chair back, Clint rose and walked down the line of tables. He stopped to chat with Rodriguez who had already finished her second piece of pie; the woman could out drink and eat most of the men as well as out fight them. She was magic with a quarterstaff, creative and very loyal. Everyone was in high spirits; good food would do that, and Philip had made it happen in just one day. Glancing up, he caught sight of Philip, his head bent towards Samuel's. With an absent gesture, Philip pushed his hair out of his eyes, and Clint saw the sparkle in those blue-green depths as he laughed at something Samuel was saying.

"Only one slice?" Andrew was asking, drawing Clint's attention back. He was holding out a pie tin with one last piece. "After that display this afternoon, you deserve it."

For a second, Clint thought the man was referring to what had happened in the apothecary (hands wrapped around his arms, hips sliding together) then he realized Andrew meant the archery field (a distant echo of a simple melody that faded quickly). "I grew up eating pie, remember. Our cook, Petyr, used to make these small handheld fried pastries this time of year, sprinkle them with sugar, and I'd steal them while they were still too hot to eat."

"Burned fingers? Some things are worth it." Andrew settled back, his shoulder brushing along Clint where he stood behind the bench. The throb in his head was back and the pain must have shown because Andrew looked up, concerned. "Your head?" He leaned in, a hand stroking Clint's thigh. The ache got worse, seeping into this chest, tightening, making it hard to breath. "Shall I get you something? Or do you need to lie down?"

"Clint." Natasha's hand was guiding him by the elbow, back towards the head table. "Stop being an idiot," she hissed into his ear when they were clear of the crowd. "For the gods' sake, you are determined to undermine any chances you have for happiness, aren't you?"

He blinked at her. "What are you talking about?"

"If you have to listen to your dick, at least don't be so obvious. Keep your lover out of sight of your husband." Natasha pitched her voice low enough that only Clint could hear.

"I am not …" Pain lanced through his head, and he closed his eyes, trying to will it away. "I didn't mean …"

She caught his chin and forced his head up, green eyes staring intently, seeing right inside of his skull and laying bare all his emotions. "Something's wrong. Let's get you somewhere quiet. I'll make your excuses."

It was easy to let her lead him, to not focus, just follow. He walked until he felt the cool air of night, the only light glowing from the window and open door behind him. The change in temperature helped; he'd been hot, just now noticing he was sweating. A few deep breaths and he started to feel better. Natasha eased him down onto what was left of a stone bench and whispered, "Stay here."

The tiniest moments and the strongest emotions were jumbled together in his head, discordant and clashing. A memory of cook's apple pie, his mother adding a dollop of cream on top of it, slipping it to him after his father had banished him to his cold room. The warmth of Philip's skin beneath his palms this afternoon, heat flowing through him. The sightless staring eyes of the first man he'd ever killed, a brigand who'd meant to rob him and slice him open. A table in a crowded tavern, benches and mugs both filled, Jessica's laugh, Carol's indulgent smile, and Natasha's raised eyebrow at his outrageous story. The overturned stones of the family cemetery, monuments crushed beyond recognition, names gone.

The scuff of a boot on stone didn't make Clint turn nor open his eyes; he'd been expecting one of them to come. All of the women were mother hens, and he loved that about them.

"May I have a moment?" Philip asked, and Clint stiffened as that damned itch came back, spiraling into his neck.

"For?" The word came out clipped and short; the sound of it reverberated in his ears and increased the pounding in his temples.

"Are you … I know we haven't …" Philip paused, collected himself. "Did I do something to anger you?"

"No." He couldn't explain what he was feeling to himself much less out loud, but he knew he needed to say more. "Natasha sent you?"

"She suggested it, yes." There was the smallest hint of a laugh in Philip's words.

"Nat's suggestions are more like orders." Clint could sense Philip's nearness and the solid presence helped, shielding him from the light that made the pain worse. "I have a headache. They come on suddenly and without warning sometimes."

"I know a little about those." Philip dropped down into a squat and put his hand on Clint's knee. "Maria is subject to terrible ones, and I learned a few techniques to help. Would you mind?" How had they gone from this afternoon in the shed to this formality? Clint didn't know. But the warmth of Philip's palm was comforting so Clint nodded in assent. The pads of Philip's fingers gently touched Clint's forehead, smoothing away the furrows before they rested on Clint's temples and applied the lightest of pressure; even that made the beat of his heart thrum through his head. Pain flashed in rhythm and he bit his lower lip to keep in the groan. Philip moved, running his hands through Clint's hair and down to the back of his neck, finding new points there and pressing. The pain shifted and poured down to those spots; Clint's head cleared, but the hurt ran along his spine instead. Shifting, Philip straddled the bench and sat beside Clint; one of Philip's hands rested around Clint's wrist, closing the circle like earlier, and the power flowed from neck to hand and back to neck again. Pain was replaced with heat; Clint felt his muscles relaxing as the ache dimmed and faded away. For the longest time, they sat that way, Philip's touch easing Clint into a more relaxed state.

"Is that feverfew?" Philip asked. Clint glanced at the overgrown bush beside him.

"Could be. Grandmother Frasier was an herbalist; she made all kinds of salves and lotions, even elixirs but those were mostly pure grain alcohol," Clint answered. "She took her medicine every day."

"That explains the apothecary." Philip's hands keep working, slow circles with his thumbs, easy strokes with his fingers. Clint felt lighter, the throbbing ache retreating.

"This was her garden. She used to grow roses and other plants, some even poisonous. I'd climb the wall and sneak in since it was off limits to everyone. It was always quiet and peaceful." He closed his eyes and drifted, forgetting what he was worrying about before.

"My mother was a healer as well. She always kept the most meticulous garden; I used to help her tend it. Surprisingly, pulling weeds can be very soothing." Somehow, Clint had leaned back into Philip's chest and now could feel the way the words vibrated along his body.

"Is this some kind of magic?" He meant it as a joke, but he felt Philip startle, the smallest of hesitations, and the flow was broken as hands dropped away.

"No." Another short answer, this time from Philip. They could not seem to have a conversation without saying the wrong things. Clint remembered too late Natasha's rumor about Philip's mother.

"Reminds me of a man I meet once, an Asarian. Taught a fighting style with trigger points in the body." Clint tried again. "I saw him bring a big man down with just a pinch of his fingers."

"Oh." Philip relaxed at Clint's explanation. "The man who taught me was a doctor and Asarian too. Very unusual, but his methods work."

"I'd say. I could sleep right here," Clint knew he was mumbling, but he could feel himself slipping out of consciousness, a deep exhaustion taking him.

"You should lie down in a dark room. I'll bring you some cool water and a cloth. Sleep is the best cure." Clint let Philip herd him back into the Hall and down the corridor towards their room; he was lightheaded and definitely not himself. By the time Jessica brought in the ewer and Natasha stopped in to check, he was already fast asleep.

…

In the last two days, Philip had been busy from sun up to long past sundown, learning about his new home, the people who lived there, and what needed to be done. He'd toured the manor and the grounds with Natasha, ridden the wall with Jessica, and talked about fortification needs with Carol. Mayor Garrett hosted Philip for lunch again, introducing him to more of the townsfolk. Bruce had looked over the garden with intense interest, helping to identify the many rare medicinal plants that were growing wild. In the afternoon, Philip made time to work with the guard, training right alongside them and working on his aim with the crossbow. It wasn't all smooth going; he was still an unknown, and it would take time for people to learn to trust him. The overt support of Clint and his thanes was welcome, but would only take Philip so far.

Philip hadn't seen much of Clint. His husband had slept fitfully the night of his headache, leaving Philip to lay awake and remember the way he'd felt Clint's eyes on him while sparring with Carol and the desire that had sparked so quickly afterwards, almost embarrassingly so. Then Clint had changed, sharp words and angry looks at dinner, but reversed again under Philip's fingers, relaxing into his hold. In the morning, Clint had been curled up tightly, and Philip let him sleep. A series of mishaps on the wall kept Clint busy outside the manor, a section collapsing and wounding three men. Clint was up before sunrise the day after that, off to oversee the mixture of the chinking compound and the repairs.

When Philip did manage to sleep the next night, he dreamed.

_Glowing green walls, endless corridors that became tunnels with neither rhyme nor reason. Circles of flames trapping and chasing him, angry voices calling his name. Then there was the rocking of a ship and the drag of calloused hands on his skin, flickering energy trailing along the fingertips' path, purple sparks that illuminated the darkness. Body heat mixed with the cool metal of chains against skin, kisses moist along his spine, a hand closed over his mouth, muffling his cries. _

"_What is this?" Clint whispered, lips brushing Philip's neck. "What are you?" _

"_Shhhhh," Philip warned, bearing down with his forearm on those broad, muscular shoulders so hard he knocked a tome off, books tumbling from the shelves. "Come for me." A command, voice low and harsh; Clint arched and caught at Philip's hands, winding their fingers together. Power flared, purple shadows at the edge of Phil's vision, and then it wasn't Clint beneath him. The man's dark hair was slicked back, his brilliant blue eyes as cold as mountain snow._

"_You have no idea, do you?" he asked._

Philip jerked away with a cry, the abrupt shift forcing him awake, his breath coming in short gasps. He was achingly hard, close to the edge, just the friction of the sheet enough to make him bite his lip to keep from moaning. The faintest beginning of light filtered in the window, the quiet of the hour before dawn surrounding the manor; Clint was face down, arm thrown across Philip's midsection. Brain spinning far too fast, Philip tried to make sense of the very vivid dream, staring at the ceiling for long minutes, but his body had different needs. Closing his eyes again, he willed his heart to slow down.

"Shhhhhh." Clint's hand slipped lower until his thumb brushed across the aching tip of Philip's swollen cock. A soft moan; the touch felt good and Philip wanted more, so he turned his head and looked into those ever-changing eyes, blue now in the darkness of the room. Lifting up on his elbow, Clint moved over him, and then his mouth covered Philip's in a soft kiss. Philip slid his knee over and Clint straddled it; the semi-hard line of Clint's erection rasped along the curve of Philip's thigh and they groaned at the same time. Maybe it was the time of night, the secret moment when all the demands of the daylight were forgotten, when they were nothing but two men with desires. Whatever the cause, they moved in unison, warming the covers around them until sweat beaded at the back of Philip's neck and a bead ran down Clint's cheek. Aroused flesh rubbed, a hand circled around Philip and he arched up as Clint's slickened fingers worked him open then Clint was pushing inside, welcomed and filling in a way Philip had never imagined. Press and retreat, tangled and joined, no words, just sighs and moans; Philip's climax was like an ocean swell that rose to a peak and then gradually retreated. He floated, meeting Clint's last few thrusts with his hips, tightening his knees around Clint's ass and holding him as he came. Clint's hands traced up Philip's side and down his arms until their hands clasped and Clint's head was resting on Philip's chest.

"Good dream or bad dream?" Clint asked.

"Good then bad." Philip's whole body was relaxed now; he could go back to sleep easily, but the sun was up, light growing in the room.

"If I have to wake up, this is a good way," Clint rolled over and flopped onto his back. "I hope the rest of the day is as nice." He pushed up on his elbows and reached a hand over to stroke Philip's hand.

The purple spark jumped between them, bright in the dim light, the crackle loud.

"What is …" Clint started to ask.

A knock sounded on the door. "Clint?" Carol's voice was pitched low, but carried into the room. "We need you in the hall."

They rolled out of bed instantly and dressed with practiced precision, pausing only to clean themselves off. Hurrying, Philip came into the hall just behind Clint and saw a young boy slumped by the fireplace, drinking water in fast gulps, his hands shaking. Long slashes rent his too-small shirt and leather vest along his left side; he held his arm against his chest, red stains already turning brown as the blood dried on the cloth. His face was pale, smears of dark stains from his fingers marring his cheeks and forehead. Big dark eyes, half out-of-focus and far too large for such a small face, stared up at them. Carol was standing next to him, a burning anger in her eyes, and Jessica hovered just behind.

"Lord Barton?" His voice trembled, but he held himself together.

"Yes. You're safe now." Clint dropped down to one knee, bringing himself to eye level. Philip caught sight of Theodore and William hovering just outside the doorway; he waved them over.

"Get Clerk Banner. Run. Tell him he'll need supplies," he whispered. Theodore nodded and darted off, out the kitchen door.

"I saw it; they was going to kill 'em." The boy blinked, tears gathering in his eyes, and looked even younger. Philip had guessed him to be around fourteen, but now he wasn't sure.

"Start from the beginning, Burton," Jessica coaxed, laying a hand on Carol's arm when she would have spoken. "Tell Lord Barton the whole story."

"Bandits, milord. They came in the middle of the night, after my Mum had put us all to bed. Da and the other men went out to stop 'em. Miz Farland down the way was screaming then she stopped and then they came to our house." Big fat tears streaked his cheeks as he spoke. "Mum told me to run, but they caught me and I bit the big ugly 'un to get away. Mr. Farland put me on a horse, told me come here, to tell you they was going to keep fightin'. I left 'em, my brothers and sisters, left 'em there." He began to sob then, thin shoulders shaking.

"You did the right thing, Burton. We're going to take care of them." Clint nodded to Carol over the boy's bowed head. "Where do you live?"

"Caine's Cross, milord. The east road." He coughed and tried to answer. "And my name's Burtie. Nobody but my Mum calls me Burton."

"Okay, Burtie. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Just answer the best you can." Clint began asking specifics: how many bandits, how well armed, and previous problems in town. As he pulled the information from the boy, Philip sent William off to the stables to get the grooms started preparing horses and Nathan, his black hair standing up in different directions, was sent to Dax to make travel packs.

When Clint was finished, Jessica put an arm around the boy. "Come on Burtie. We'll get you some breakfast and some clean clothes. Lord Barton will take care of your family." Philip noticed she didn't promise they'd be alright; from the boy's story, he doubted there was much chance they'd all emerged unscathed.

"Get the horses." Clint ordered. The mantle of command fell easily on his shoulders; this was a role he was comfortable with. "We'll ride within the half hour. Take five of the guard, one of them Rodriguez. Sounds like a small band but we'll have to run them to ground. We make an example of them."

"Not we," Carol argued. "You're a Lord now, Clint. It's my job to ride into danger; you have a different responsibility."

"These are my people and I'm still your commanding officer." Clint wasn't swayed. "You're staying here; this could be a feint to draw us away. Jessica can go with me."

"Clint," she shook her head. "Natasha is perfectly capable of defending the manor. You might need me."

"Natasha won't be back until tomorrow." That was news to Philip; he didn't even know she was gone.

Carol wasn't done yet; she turned to Philip. "Explain the role of a Lord to him, Philip."

"I agree with Clint." He saw the surprise on Carol's face. "Were Clint an established Lord, well-known by his people, I'd say your plan would be best. But right now, the people need to see him protecting them; if events go the way you think they will, we'll all have plenty of battles to face."

For a moment, Philip would swear he saw a flicker of purple in Clint's eyes. "Be sure and keep the work on the wall going," Clint aimed his words at Philip. "The manor is yours; keep them safe."

"I'll roust Anders and Quincy; I saw Salinas and Pratt already …" They walked away and Philip took his own leave. He looked into the kitchen where Dax was taking some of the still hot meat rolls from the oven to add to the food satchels. He'd taken some time yesterday to organize his meager belongings into the wardrobe – and he'd thought of the cart filled with the possessions he'd packed, his clothes, his books, all on their way from Tarian Castle. Where would he put it all? He busied himself getting a pack together, not thinking about the number of times he'd done this before, readying others to go into danger. The door swung open, and Clint stepped in; Philip realized the air still smelled of sex, the covers askew on the bed.

"I put in what I thought you might need. It could take a few days to track them back to their hiding place," he said as he sat the satchel down by the door. "We'll take care of things here."

"You packed for me?" He stared at the leather bag. "Why?"

"To help you get on the road faster. Dax has some food stuffs ready and I'll go check on the horses while you gather the guard." Philip started to move past Clint, but he caught his elbow and held him back.

"You are …" Clint searched for the right word, "… completely unexpected. Thank you." His other hand curled around Philip's neck and drew him in for a quick, but very thorough kiss.

"You're welcome." Philip smiled in return.

…

"Is this where you tell us we're not wanted in the manor anymore?"

Philip knew this meeting wouldn't be easy; looking at the group gathered in the hall, the worry and sullen resentment on their faces confirmed his suspicions. There were seven of them, the camp followers, five women and two men. He'd taken the time to learn their names before he'd called them together, to find out a little about each one of them. He needed to settle their place here before he interviewed townspeople for jobs later this afternoon. And none of this was about the brown haired man that seemed to put his hands on Clint quite often or the way Philip felt when he saw how Clint laughed and smiled at Andrew. None of that entered into the equation.

"No. There's plenty of work for everyone; this is where we talk about what job you want to have in Lord Barton's household." He saw the look Andrew and the other man exchange a glance; well, they were going to have to get used to using Clint's title. With Clint on his way to Caine's Crossing, now was as good a time as any to beard this lion.

"You mean Clint?" Rachel called out; the blonde had asked the first question, her disdain for the proceedings obvious.

"I mean Lord Barton. We all need to cultivate the habit; the people here and the other landowners will expect it." He was going to have to be blunt, he could see. Only two of the women – Darla and Sophia – seemed the least bit open to listening.

"Of course, Lord Barton … I mean you not Clint. Two Lord Bartons is going to get confusing fast," she drawled. This morning she was clad in a pair of oversized leather pants and a linen shirt clasped around her waist by a wide belt; Philip had never seen Rachel wear a dress in his short time here. She seemed to be the spokeswoman for the group, but Philip suspected others were simply biding their time. Andrew's green eyes were following his every movement, weighing and judging.

"Lord Philip is fine." That earned him an eye roll and two sighs. He waited until they'd settled back down and stared each one down in turn; Fury called Phil's ability to wait calmly the greatest weapon in his arsenal. Very few people could stand the silent regard for long. Sure enough, Rachel dropped her own gaze first; Andrew lasted the longest but even he succumbed quickly. "How long have you been with Clint's company?" He addressed the question to Ivan with his dark hair, dark eyes, and silent behavior.

"Four years." A heavy accent colored his words, but there was no trace of sarcasm.

"Ladies?" Philip asked. "How long?"

"Six." Nila, a lovely dark-skinned woman, answered with a quiet voice; she barely looked older than fifteen, but Jessica had told him she was over twenty years old. They thought.

"Two for us," Darla answered for both herself and Sophia. They were sisters, Jessica had said; they went everywhere together.

"Three," Rachel said. That just left Andrew who shrugged when the others looked to him.

"A year and a half." His answer held a note of bragging as if he was challenging them all to make a comment.

"Then you know Lord Barton and you obviously care enough about him and this company to come here with them. This is his home, these are his people, and you can see how much they've suffered; regardless of what you think of me, you owe it to Clint to do the best you can to help him rebuild. I promise if you help us, this can be your home as well." Cynicism ran deep and Philip expected nothing less than the silence that greeted his words, but he hoped he'd sown a seed of trust. "Now what are your skills?"

Nila spoke first. "My father was a scribe," she offered. "I can read and write in three languages."

"Excellent. With all the workmen we'll have and Dax's lists of required ingredients, there will be a large amount of correspondence." An assistant hadn't been on his short list but would certainly be welcome.

"I can sew," Sophia said. "Darla too, but she prefers needlework to mending." Darla glowered but didn't gainsay her sister's comments.

"Gardening." Ivan kicked his feet up on the next bench and said no more than that.

"Well, my mother was a whore and daddy one of her customers. My skill? I give a fantastic blowjob." Rachel threw out the challenge that Philip was expecting and prepared for.

"Fair enough. But this is a manor, not a brothel; everyone needs to contribute to the day-to-day running of the house. If you're willing, you can fuck everyone and anyone who agrees on your own time. No one will be forced to have sex, and rape will not be tolerated." Several heads whipped up at that statement, shock in their eyes.

"You going to throw me out if I don't work?" Rachel pushed and they all waited for his reply.

"You're welcome to stay on in town and of course you may visit whomever you wish here. There are at least two taverns that may be hiring." Philip held his ground.

She huffed, crossed her arms under her breasts which plumped up cleavage even more. "Are you sure we can't come to an arrangement? Nights will be long and cold in the winter once the newness wears off."

"Not the right equipment, but thank you for the offer," he calmly replied. That earned him a chuckle from Ivan and Darla, plus an appraising look from Andrew. "I wouldn't mind fresh sheets on Lord Barton's bed, or clean clothes to replace soiled ones if you've a mind to work the laundry."

Laughter bubbled up from her throat. "You just might be trainable, _Lord_ Philip. But I'll turn down the laundry. What I can do is bake bread and make a pie crust that will melt in your mouth. Dax could use the help."

That just left Andrew; he offered up an easy smile. "Always have loved working with horses."

"A right horse whisperer is our Andy," Darla agreed. "Can talk a woman out of her underwear and a horse straight through a river without balking. Silver tongued devil."

"Good. I'll be hiring more help today and there's plenty to do to get started now. If the King does come to visit, we'll need all hands on deck to make a good impression." He nodded, dismissing them. He hadn't won the battle, he knew; there were still so many challenges left.

"Lord Philip," Andrew said, pausing close enough to reach out with his hand and touch Philip's arm. "If you need help …"

"I appreciate the offer." Philip was cautious in his reply, wondering exactly what the man thought to accomplish.

"It is a difficult position you are in. But we do all agree. Clint … Lord Barton is worth the effort," he said with a smile as he left the room.

"Very interesting strategy," Annamarie said. She was standing in the doorway that led to the demolished wing of the Manor, hands on her hips. Younger than Philip but older than Clint, she had a smattering of grey strands in her brown hair, laugh lines around her brown eyes and an easy smile. With a glance, she seemed the antithesis of Clint's three thanes; extra weight clung to her hips and her curves were from childbirth not muscles. But she was just as strong as the others. "Are you always so soft-hearted? That's trouble in the making there."

"Are you always so straight spoken?" He'd been warned by the Mayor and a few of the townspeople that Annamarie was too disrespectful of authority, but that only made him want to talk to her more. "Thank you for coming."

She nodded, a shadow floating behind her eyes. "I haven't been here since the attack."

"If it's too difficult …"

"No, it is time. Mother always said to face my problems." She walked into the main hall, eyeing the tables and empty walls. "So much to do yet, so much lost. Although mother would be happy to see those tapestries gone. She always hated them. Made the room very dark and dreary, she said. Who wants to see bloody corpses depicted in thread while they eat."

Philip let her talk, knowing she was dealing with reminders of her own grief.

"And you want me to take charge of this place? I will speak my mind, be warned. I'm not a sycophant like Garrett and I won't stand for whoring from my staff nor lazing about. If they do their work and cause no trouble, they're welcome." She was looking for Philip's reaction.

"Agreed," was all he said. "When can you start?"

She laughed, a hearty sound that echoed around the bare room. "Since you're stacked like cordwood up here, I'll be living at home until suitable quarters are available for me and the twins. First thing, I handle the hiring of the kitchen and manor staff; you won't know the slackers from the good ones. No special treatment regardless who's who. Now, what's first?"

"Lord Barton wants us prepared for winter, so foodstuffs and weatherproofing." Philip followed her as she led the way out of the hall towards the kitchen. "I've gotten a start building up the larder …"

…

Seven bodies lay in the outer yard of the inn, and Clint took a moment to look them over before he swung down out of the saddle. Two were obviously bandits from their attire, faces marked with red patches of burned skin. The others - two men, a woman, and two young boys – were locals; copper pennies covered their eyes, payment for the ferryman who would take them safely into the afterlife.

"Lord Barton." The man who came forward from the crowd was in his late thirties, dressed in homespun breeches and linen cloth with a leather vest tied closed. A big boned man, he bowed his head briefly. "My Burton? He reached you?"

"Safe and in the care of Clerk Banner for his wounds." Clint couldn't help but notice the looks exchanged from the handful of men and women who'd come out of the inn to greet the party. There'd been fear at first, but now there was something akin to hope. "I need to know what happened here."

"Of course, My Lord," another man pushed forward; his clothes were of better quality, and he looked less harried, more like a man who'd had a good night's sleep. "I am Elder Gregor, and I'll be happy to explain …"

"Thank you, Gregor, but I would like to hear from …" Clint looked at Burtie's father and waited.

"I'm Ferguson, milord." His eyes darted between the other man and Clint, a bit of concern there.

"… Ferguson and I'll want to speak to Farland as well. Shall we?" Clint didn't wait, walking up the steps and into the main room, expecting the others to follow. Setting the tone, that was what Natasha called it, ensuring the people understood he was in charge here. Jessica, he knew, would stop to check out the bodies, to look for any clues as to their identities.

"Farland's bad off, milord," was the first thing Ferguson said after Clint sat down on a bench. A mug of ale appeared in front of him; the older woman bobbed a curtsey and went back behind the bar where a slim man about her age was working. "That's his wife and two sons out there; he's with Old Man Singer right now."

Gregor snorted at the statement, and Ferguson stopped talking. Crossing his arms, Clint waited, taking a sip of his ale to cover the silence. Finally, he spoke to Ferguson. "Tell me what happened, start to finish."

"We live on the north side of town, us and the Farlands and the Donaldsons, up near the woods. Been a hard few years, here on the edge. There's always the occasional wolf or bear or sometimes even stranger creatures that get lost and wander our way, but nothing like this. We had a gimlet picking off sheep, a wolf pack that ain't scared of nothing but hard steel, and a rugar sighting over near Donaldson's Meadow."

"Now that's just a story and you know it," Gregor interrupted. "We have no proof of a rugar."

"We killed a mother and her cubs two days ago near Frasierton." Clint fixed the pompous man with a stare that would stop a sensible person. "Please, go on," he asked Ferguson.

"There's been a few robbings on the roads, mostly the wooded sections in the foothills towards Stark's, but they've never bothered a town before. Picking off lone travelers, that's what they've been doing. We just travel in groups with swords, and we were alright." Ferguson's hands were shaking slightly, whether from the trauma of the night or talking now, Clint didn't know. But he was scared of something. With another glance at Gregor, Ferguson kept going. "They broke into Farland's house; first sign we knew was Sue's screams. Farly was outside, checking on his fence line; he'd lost some of his best laying hens to a wolf last week. Woke me and my wife up. That was the only reason we had time to get ready for 'em. Bron, she got the kids out, told 'em to run to the circle, and then they were at the door. Wasn't 'til later that Farly told us he'd sent Burtie on to get you."

"Why would they attack you? Were they looking for something?" Clint asked. It was odd; bandits usually took the path of lesser danger, opting to rob those weaker than themselves and chose targets with the most money or gold. Two farmer's homes didn't fit that pattern.

"That's the weird part. They didn't say nothing, just sat about trying to kill us. We'd have all been dead if it weren't for Old Man Singer showing up with his magic."

"There is no such thing as magic!" Gregor burst out. "That old man is a charlatan, a trickster. Tells his stories and takes your money for herbs and sleight of hand, that's all!"

Clint held up his hand to forestall any more interruptions. "I'll thank you to keep your tongue, Elder Gregor. You'll have your turn. Now, how did Singer get there and what did he do?"

"His place is close; it was Farly's little girl. She crawled out a window and ran." He didn't explain why the child would go to Singer's; that was interesting. Clint filed that fact away for later. "He threw fire at them – you can see their burns – and the others got scared and ran. We'd be dead if he hadn't shown up when he did."

"Alright, tell me as many details as you can about the bandits. How many, male or female, marks on their bodies, anything at all out of the ordinary," Clint asked. Something about all of this was off and it was niggling at his brain.

"Well, milord, their eyes were odd." Ferguson leaned forward. "They were all blue. Not just normal colors, but glowing, even at night."


	6. It's Magic

Old Man Singer's place wasn't all that far from the homesteads but it might as well have been halfway across the world. The ramshackle old house was two story, build of wood and plaster walls that were in disrepair, light glinting off the remaining glass in the big open windows. The wall around the compound was shored up in places with rocks, in other spots with wooden palisades and still others with sheets of rusty metal layered over each other and winched tight at the edges. Hodgepodge, that was the word Clint would use to describe the place, old structures cobbled together for protection and warmth in this cold climate on the edge of civilized space. Inside the wall was the strangest collection of items sitting among the trees and cluttering up the clearing. Iron contraptions, only half of any given device, filled with rusty holes, piled haphazardly on top of broken carts, building materials, and other junk. Among the mess Clint saw a table ladened with pulley systems and a rack of old swords and other weapons. Jessica spotted the wagon tucked around the side of the house under cover of a sheet metal roof next to an anvil and a forge.

He was waiting for them on the porch, not an old man at all, but a man in his fifties with a weathered face and tufts of grey in his hair and beard. His stance was loose, easy, and despite his moderate size and oversized coat, he carried himself with the confidence of a fighter. Glowering at them as they approached, he waited, not at all cowed to be meeting a Lord. Clint could have stayed on his horse, used the difference in height to establish his dominance, but his gut told him this wariness was born of experience and difference rather than some deep seated hatred. So he slid off after they came to a stop, Jessica following his lead, stepped up to the Singer, and waited for him to make the first move.

"You come to interrogate the bandit?" Gravelly voiced, Singer crossed his arms as his eyes narrowed, assessing. Clint kept his face impassive; Ferguson had told him there was one living captive.

"Aye, and I'd like to ask Farland some questions if he's up to it." No reprimand for the lack of title, no posturing; Clint let the conversation ride.

"Bandit's no use to you." Singer shook his head. "But you can talk all you like. Farly's under some heavy medication, but he'll help. He's trying to roll out of bed and go after the bastards himself."

A little girl, no more than five-years-old, peaked around the corner of the door; her cheeks were stained with the trail of tears, her eyes red, nose snotty and unwiped. Her feet were bare and her dress stained with dark brown spots of dried blood. Farly's girl, Clint surmised.

"I plan to take care of that," Clint replied. Singer stood for a few more seconds, the silence stretched then he dropped his shoulders and stepped out of the way.

"Well, come on then. Your men can stable the horses around back; well water's cold but plentiful."

The inside was as odd as the outside. The entryway held a flight of stairs up and opened into a parlor that was crammed full of books of all shapes and sizes. Every surface had piles of tomes, some old, some new, some buckled closed, some falling apart. Only the desk in front of the fireplace was cleared off, stacks of parchment, a set of bowls, various candles, and apothecary jars neatly lined up along the sides to leave the middle open. Through another doorway, Clint could see a table and chairs, an ancient icebox, and cabinets with long countertops stacked full of bottles and pots and boxes.

"A very old house," Jessica said, running a hand along the mantle place. The painting above was of a green landscape, dappled sunlight on a lazy river. "Pre-age handicraft. Nice workmanship – there are people in the Capital who'd spend a lot of money for this."

"Yeah, well, they can kiss my ass," Singer snorted. "House has been in the family for generations. Ain't no fancy going to strip it so they can brag to their hoity-toity friends then replace it all in five years."

Jessica smiled in returned. "I see you've been down that way."

"I've been everywhere, ma'am." Wasn't that interesting, Clint thought. Jessica was good at connecting with people, young and old alike, and Singer's politeness to her was much different from his reaction to Clint. "Seen a lot in my time. Things people 'round here don't want to believe."

"Like rugars down from the mountains? Or men with glowing blue eyes?" Clint tossed out. Singer didn't miss a beat.

"Aye. And stranger things. Question today is, do you want to know about them or are you gonna stick your head in the sand and pretend magic doesn't exist? 'Cause if that's the case, the door is right there and you may as well head on out of here. Go back to town and take that idjit Gregor up on his offer of a drink." The belligerent Singer was back, daring Clint to contradict him.

"Since we killed a few rugars the other day, guess I'll have to admit they're real." He leaned against a bookcase and remained casual. "Took down a vodun zombie once, so I'm open to the possibility of magical possession."

Dead silence. Singer stayed perfectly still, didn't twitch or bat an eyelid for a count of five. Then a grin spread across his face, and he slapped Clint on the shoulder, hard, walked to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and some glasses. "Damn glad to hear it," he said as he sat them down on the desk and began to pour the brown liquid. "I was thinking it might be time to go wandering again, get out of here until this is over one way or the other. A nice island down South maybe with dark skinned girls and really good rum, if you know what I mean. But if you're willing to listen, maybe we have a chance."

"I'll listen, but the decision is my own." The whiskey was smooth and burned as it went down Clint's throat; Singer tossed his back and poured another before Jessica had finished her first sip.

"Course it is. That's the way it should be." He was grabbing books now, seemingly at random, but Clint realized the piles were some sort of organizing system as Singer counted down and over to find what he wanted. "Damn shame about your momma, boy. She'd have taught you right." He kept searching and ignored the way Clint startled. Singer knew his mother? Jessica caught his eyes and they exchanged a glance. Family was one of the things Clint never talked about, but the women around him knew. Natasha, he imagined, had found out all the details she didn't already know once they arrived at the manor and shared them with Carol and Jessica.

"Ah, here it is." Singer tugged a black leather bound book out and placed it on the desk; he carefully brushed off the area around it then dusted the book itself before he opened it, the vellum making crinkles and cracks as he gingerly found the page he wanted. As big as a platter, the tome's pages were yellowed and filled with tiny black letters and intricate illuminations in the margin, colors faded with age.

Clint stepped over and tried to read the words on the page, but he'd never seen the language before. What he did recognize was picture of a man's head, eyes colored blue, in the middle of a patterned design. "Is that a summoning circle?" he asked.

"You ain't dumb, are you?" Singer ran his finger along a line of text. "Not a summoning circle, but a sorcerer's trap. Keeps the magic inside of the lines so's not to affect anyone else in the room. Mostly just a decoration in this book to show the type of spell, do don't read much into it."

"Spell." It wasn't a question, more of a statement of a fact Clint didn't want to hear.

"A spell of compulsion looks like. Takes over the person's will and makes him a puppet to the commands of the spell caster. Poor sap would be trapped inside, watching what he was doing. Nasty piece of work." He read aloud from the book: "for the strong of heart, a circle is recommended to entrap their soul. Only the strongest of sorcerer can ensnarl a bonded."

"So the bandits were under a spell cast by a sorcerer? That one might be a little too far for me to go." Clint had seen the effects of magic but never met more than a hedge wizard or charms witch. He wasn't one to discount legends – too many scars left by creatures that weren't supposed to exist to do that – but this strayed into the realm of fairy tales.

"Don't bale on me yet," Singer said. "Doesn't have to be a living person, although that's a possibility. Could be magical residue. These hills were a popular place to hide things and booby traps could be lingering. Or maybe they robbed the wrong person and ended up with a cursed item. Those are floating around out there too."

"And it made them all go crazy and attack innocent people?" Jessica said, putting things together. "That's a big coincidence. Why these people and this place?"

"Could be the closest to their hideout," Clint offered, playing devil's advocate.

"And maybe there was a reason to come here," Jessica came back. "If they'd turned on each other or gone off in different directions, I could buy it. But this was a planned attack. They came at night, hit less defended targets, moved from one house to the next, fought as a unit according to the witnesses … that shows thinking on their part."

"Might be a good question to ask our one remaining bandit." Clint looked over at Singer. "You talked to him yet?"

"Boy's tightlipped, scared if you ask me. Whatever happened, he's not saying. Have a go at him. He's downstairs."

He led the way into the cellar and opened a big iron door; behind was a small circular room with tiny windows and a magical symbol drawn on the floor. Sitting on a small cot was a young man, maybe 18-years-old or so, his right arm in a sling and a bandage across his chest. He looked up as they stepped in, angry jaw jutting out as he lifted his head. Then he saw Clint, and he sucked in a breath, eyes going wide with fear.

"You know me?" Clint asked, stopping in front of the captive, standing above him. "Know who I am?"

"You're him," he whispered, hands trembling. "Know of you, know what to do. Take the leap, only answer."

"Leap? What are you supposed to do?"

"He said to find it, to bring it back, to kill you and the others now before …" His whole body began shaking, tremors that grew more violent. "The Hawk knows."

"Find what? Who's the hawk?"

"Can't. Won't let me …" A thin line of blood ran from his nose. "All dead. We're all dead." He fell over onto his back, limbs thrashing. Clint held his hands down to keep him from clawing at his face while Jessica turned his head to the side so he wouldn't choke on his tongue.

"What were you looking for?" Clint asked again.

The bandit opened his mouth, tried to speak, but his eyes rolled back into his head, and he simply stopped, falling limp as he died.

"Well, balls" Singer cursed. "Never seen a booby trapped spell before. Seeing you set it off. Might be some marks on the body; magic that black usually leaves a stain."

"Do you know what he was talking about?" Jessica asked.

"That's why I keep the books, so I don't have to remember. Just have to look it up." Singer huffed as if that should be obvious.

"I don't think we have to worry about another foray anytime soon," Clint mused. "If they all were like this … then they're all dead like he said."

He was bothered by the fact he'd been the catalyst for the man's death. What had he meant 'kill you and the others?' Before what? And who was this mysterious 'he?' Clint had only been back a few months; the attack on the manor was two years ago. How could he have anything to do with this?

"What the hell did all that mean?" Jessica as she balanced on the edge of the desk when they came back upstairs, taking the second glass Singer poured for her. "Someone told them to kill you." She shook her head at the strange words.

"Well, now we know they were being controlled, given orders. Could be a geas laid on them; that's easier to do, but never heard of blue eyes associated with that." Singer was searching again for information in his books. "Ain't no mistakin' though. He knew you and was told to kill you. That's not an old spell; he recognized you."

"A geas? Like a blood bond?" Clint had heard of ways to make a pact that both sides had to uphold. A good hedge wizard could whip up one of those; mix blood, make a vow, and you had to do what you said.

"More like a curse. Do or die, and a strong one can make you do it whether you want to or not." He'd stopped at a smaller book with blue binding, scanning the pages as he spoke. "But to do a whole group? Serious power there and since you don't believe in that, we're back to square one. Looking for a source that had enough juice to zap them all."

As open-minded as he was about this, Clint didn't want to start down that road. "Maybe a creature of some kind? Saw a wyvern once whose stare could freeze men in place. Heard a rumor about a giant snake that could make people walk right into its mouth."

"Possible. Yeah. Have some grimoires over there to check." Singer nodded in agreement. "That would explain the smaller fish running from the new big boy in the neighborhood."

"A bird maybe?" Jessica suggested; she got up and took a book off the top of the stack Singer had motioned to. "He said something about a hawk and a leap."

"Fuck me." Clint pushed away from the wall. "Hawk's Leap. It's no more than a day's ride up in the hills. Plenty of caves to hide a group of bandits near the falls."

"Or a big mean monster." Singer dropped the book he was holding in his excitement. "Take the leap like the Hawk."

"Excuse me, someone want to explain to the non-local here?" Jessica asked.

"It's a cliff face, looks like half the tor was sheared away. There's a stream that falls from the top down to the pool at the bottom. Legend goes that way back in the First Age, there was a great battle there, part of the last push; the Red Sorcerer rent the ground and ripped it away so Roger's fighters fell to their deaths including his bonded Barnes." Clint supplied. He was moving restlessly now, sure he was on the right track. "It's secluded, difficult to get to, and a perfect hiding place."

"Also supposed to be cursed," Singer added. "A few hundred years ago a Fraiser Lord - man had the eyesight of a hawk, they said – was being chased by some very nasty customers who had killed his wife. They trapped him at the top of the tor and he jumped. Story goes, he turned into a bird and flew away."

"Hawk's Leap. You think the others are there?"

"I'm willing to bet on it. Round up the men. Can't hurt to ride up there and see."

They stayed long enough to talk to Farland; he added a few details they didn't already know, but he latched onto the idea the bandits were searching for something. He got out of bed with help and started pouring over Singer's books; having a goal seemed to give him a reason to go on even if his reading skills were rudimentary. His daughter curled up next to him and he absently hugged her to him as he read. Singer insisted on coming with them in case there was anything dangerous there, but Clint suspected he was more curious than worried. The thought of running into a creature from legends or a cursed item was too much temptation for him. All in all, he wasn't a bad traveling companion; he knew details and facts about all the flora and fauna, told stories along the way about wayward lovers and ill-tempered fairies. Avoiding town, they stopped at Ferguson's who offered them some basic provisions for the two day journey, then set out, up into the hills. The first part of the ride was easy; a road led north for a bit before it swung east towards Stark land. From there, they took to the woods, directions from a map Singer had brought with him, slowing to avoid horses stepping into holes or tripping over exposed roots. Green canopy shaded the afternoon sun, the smell of pine rising as they broke fallen needles under them. They passed by two stone circles, one cleaned and in good repair, still in use, the other smaller, older, further along. Vines grew over the grey cracked surfaces, but a shaft of light cut through an opening and lit the center with an eerie glow.

Night fell quickly under the trees, going from dusky twilight to pitch as they halted in a small clearing near a stream. Under the draping boughs of a pine, tucked into his warm bedroll on the soft carpet of needles, was far from the worst place Clint had ever laid his head. The stream was soothing music, the sparkle of the stars a night light, and the snores around him familiar. Sleep came easily knowing people he trusted were on watch and soon he was dreaming.

_Underground caverns, room after room, glowing with dim light. Books, stacks upon stacks until the walls were obscured and nothing of the floor remained but the tiniest of paths to weave through. Men with glowing blue eyes coming over the rubble of the wall, creeping past the manor, murder in their eyes. Philip in chainmail and leather, pressing him against a table, sparks flying between them as he held him there. Something half-buried, silver glinting on a curved edge. With a cry, a hawk launched itself off a branch and soared over the grounds, a new roof, colorful garden, and new buildings sprawling across the hilltop. Clint pulled back the string, the tone vibrating through him, harmony growing as the chord fleshed out. He focused in on that spot between the ice blue eyes as they turned and fell upon him._

He was used to getting by with only a few hours of rest, but the images kept replaying in his head as they rode on in the morning. Bad dreams were part and parcel of the life he'd made for himself; faces of the dead visited him often in the dark of the night. This was new, these flashes that rang with truth. What they foretold, he had no idea. Give him a battle to fight and he'd know how to begin. Dreams … and marriage … those were different.

The last hour was steep terrain with no path; they had to lead the horses, picking their way along the stream until they could hear the crash of falls growing louder.

"It's gorgeous," Jessica breathed as took a bend and came into sight of the pool. The rocks formed a bowl that caught the water as it cascaded over the lip high above them; the edge tipped out like a pitcher and ran into the stream bed, tumbling down another small drop before it meandered back the way they'd come. Maybe half a mile wide at the back, the smooth curve of the pool took them around to the limestone face of the cliff. "And would be quite a leap from up there."

"Barton!" Singer shouted, pointing further along their path. A body lay face down, one foot in the water, back and chest bare, angry red splotches along his skin. Dismounting, Clint walked towards it.

"Keep an eye out for movement," he told the others. "Watch the rocks. There are caves up there, hiding holes."

He knelt down and examined the body. Male, older than Clint, a myriad of scars adorning the skin. A sword belt, but no sword and no sign of his shirt or vest. Eyes open, dried blood at the corners and under his nose. A few places gnawed on by wildlife, but still recognizable – he hadn't been laying here too long.

"The burns are courtesy of my magic," Singer said, standing and looking over Clint's shoulder. "Still fresh."

"Courtesy of your flash powder, you mean." Clint smirked, catching the reflection of Singer's face in the water. "I wasn't born yesterday and that's very popular in the isles for fusillade canons."

"Ain't stupid at all," Singer muttered under his breath.

"Looks like the other one." Jessica was moving forward, searching the ground. "And I've got footprints here, leading towards that odd little set of indentations."

Tracking backwards, Clint followed the trail to the cliff face, narrowed his eyes and saw it, the way the rocks changed colors slightly, the smallest of shadows.

"Rodriguez and Pratt, stay here with the horse and watches our backs. Everyone else with me."

Only when he was flush with the cliff and turned sideways, looking away from the fall of water, did the path become obvious, picking its way up the side, twisting back upon itself and rising higher. Just wide enough for a horse, the trail would be virtually unnoticeable looking straight on, and most would think behind the falls would be where to look, missing it all together. It wasn't that difficult to navigate unless a person didn't care for heights. Clint loved them; from the crow's nest to the top of a tower, he'd always loved a bird's eye view, his eyesight allowing him to see great distances. Just being here, he wanted to climb all the way up and take in the view, stand on the edge and feel the rush of wind.

The first overhang they came to held another body, this one clothed and seated with his back to the wall. A sentry post it seemed, barely big enough for one guard. Beyond they found a series of caves, one with six horses who whinnied as they passed, pawing the ground with their hooves, probably hungry and thirsty. Another two that were also stalls, but empty. Smaller spaces were storage: food in barrels, rainwater, a cask of ale. Then they found the deeper ones, two and three rooms, some sleeping areas, others rooms with benches and tables. As they went, the body count rose to four, each in different positions, one stretched out on a cot, more burns on his body, and the other slumped over a table.

They'd wound their way further and found the largest of the caverns; the entrance was narrow, one skinny person wide unless turned sideways, and opened into a series of four rooms. Lanterns sat just inside, out of sight, and they lit some to carry with them. Desks, chairs, maps, and books cluttered two of them, the third what looked like a meeting room, and the fourth a big cave at the back, down a small passageway, large enough to hold a small troop with a firepit in the middle of the floor. A small outlet for smoke was directly above; Clint guessed there would be a cap on the outside to defuse the tell-tale trickle. They found the other three bodies here, seated together, a map spread out on a table, mugs half full. All had hemorrhages and blood stains on their faces.

"Looks like somebody doesn't like failure." Singer sat his lantern down on the table and crinkled his nose. "Smell's ripe back here."

"Spread out," Clint told the others. "See what you can find but be careful about touching things, especially if it seems old or valuable." It was a testament to their shared experiences that no one gave his order a second thought. Just in case a cursed object was lying around, it couldn't hurt to be cautious.

"This place is big." Jessica was moving around the room; she'd been taking mental notes as they'd explored. "Between the space for the horses, the sleeping quarters, and chairs, these seven, plus our dead one back in town …."

"It doesn't look good." Clint felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought. "Where are the rest?"

"Here's an idea." Singer pointed at the map. Clint could see four areas with circles around them. The town at Caine's Crossing was the closest one. Another was east, into Stark territory, about a two day ride away. Then one due west in Howling Valley and the last one … were Barton Manor and Frasierton.

"Fuck." Clint stared at the parchment for a moment as the implications sank in. "They're going to attack the manor." He knew in a flash how he'd do it. Eight men to Caine's Crossing because there'd be resistance there. A smaller group along the East road; the barrows were there, a graveyard no longer in use. The rest he'd send to the Valley first to search, and then on to Frasierton. Use one of the broken sections of the wall to gain entrance, take the inhabitants unawares, and split up at different locations while everyone was busy with rebuilding.

"Carol's there. Natasha should be back by now. And the rest of the guard," Jessica assured him. "Plus Philip seems damn competent. If the bandits get close, they'll take care of them."

"Assuming they hit the manor and not somewhere around town. Innocent people could die." Clint was moving as he spoke, a crackling energy pushing him to take action. "That's what they're going to do."

"Clint?" Jessica made his name a question.

"Trust me." The exact same words he'd said that first time, when they'd found themselves back-to-back in a bar fight turned ugly. Something had made her believe it then and she accepted it now.

"Okay. What's the plan?"

"You and the others stay here, gather up all the information you can, anything that can help us figure out what's happening." He walked back through the caves to the entrance, the need to get out of here a solid presence in his chest. "I'll take Rodriguez and we'll ride for the manor. We can make it back in two days if we cut across country."

It wouldn't be an easy ride – rough terrain, no paths – but every hair on the back of his neck was standing up, worry and fear tied to the image from his dreams. He'd do it. He had to.

…

Philip wasn't sure if the constant stream of workers underfoot was worth the progress they were making on the manor. It was getting out of control; Annamarie had women on ladders scrubbing soot off the walls, boys hauling away rubble down to the stone masons to be used for the wall, and men tearing off the old roof to make way for the new. Dax had retreated to his kitchen to train what seemed to be a phalanx of new helpers and Carol kept the Lord's Guard … as the remaining company fighters had decided to call themselves … busy training new recruits for the main guard ranks. The pages were darting in and out; Nathan had scampered up a ladder yesterday and almost brought it down when he jumped to the rafter beam to get to the roof. This morning, Philip had awoken to a maid bringing him fresh water and the banging of hammers just outside of his window. He'd tried not to think about being alone in the bed – he'd only had a handful of nights with Clint beside him so he shouldn't miss the warmth of the other body – and he certainly didn't allow himself to miss the touch of Clint's hand or lips, the feel of Clint's skin against his. But he did have to find a more permanent solution to bleed off excess energy other than his dagger or sword. The spark built quickly between discharges, more so than ever; yesterday, he'd singed his fingers after catching Rachel and a lusty young mason in the pantry, the anger flashing into power too fast for him to do more than reach for his belt. He took to carrying a small stoppered jar with cooling gel in his pouch to soothe the burns it happened so often.

And yet, the work they'd accomplished in the days since Clint had left was astonishing. He allowed himself to feel a little satisfaction as life teemed inside and out. Worth the trouble, truly, all of it. He'd seen the first tentative sketches from the architects who'd offered their services, four of them total, and they were all more than serviceable replacements for the destroyed parts of the building. Some were downright beautiful; he was particularly fond of one design that incorporated light and gardens into the very essence of the house. Add the fact the architect was a young local man just making a name for himself, and Philip hoped Clint would appreciate the value in doing something new and different. Maybe he could sell Clint with the open, two-story library; the section Philip had seen a draft of, with its large stone fireplace and spiral staircase. He just might have dreamed about that room last night, a happy reprieve from the increasingly bizarre dreams of being lost, colors bleeding into his body, and a dark-haired, green-eyed man appearing at will.

The anxiety from his dreams was seeping into the daylight hours; for the last few days, he'd had a growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. Today, the power was close to a boil; he'd taken to touching the wall around the fireplace, singe of the discharge unnoticed in the permanent smoke stain. He passed there often enough to drag his fingers without arousing suspicion. The weight pressed down at the base of his skull, demanding he take action … but he didn't know why. Yesterday, he'd scrambled the schedule, moving training to the evening; when Maria Hill had arrived with the wagons ladened with his possessions from Tarian Castle, she'd found Philip on the grounds, watching Carol patiently testing recruits in various weapons. Her unexpected appearance had distracted him for the evening, but the knot was back in full this morning. After a cup of coffee, his first stop was to talk Carol into mixing the Tarian guards in with their people for the afternoon session while he took Maria on a tour of the holding. Three times, he'd changed his mind about the itinerary of their day trip, something pulling him to the Northeast, an area he'd never personally been to himself.

"Lord Philip," Theodore tugged on his vest to get his attention. "The outer bailey storerooms are cleaned out whenever you're ready to move your things in."

"Thank you, Theodore." There was still some work to be done on the boys' demeanor, but they were consistently calling him Lord Philip now, so that was progress. "Tell them they can start unloading while we're gone. Are the horses ready?"

"Andrew's got 'em out and saddled. Out front. Lord Philip. Sir." The boy was trying, Philip had to give him credit. As soon as he finished speaking, Theodore dashed away, running at a breakneck pace weaving through the workers in his way.

"He's got energy." Maria said; Philip knew that she was amused by the boy's antics. "Makes up for the old folks, eh?"

"Considering I'm the old man around here? Yes." Philip hadn't bothered to hide the dark circles under his eyes this morning at breakfast. Maria had grilled him last night about his life here, missing nothing in her quest to satisfy her worries.

"You're running circles around all of them, I bet." Concern shadowed her eyes. "That young pup you married has to keep up with you."

"Shall we?" He only smiled in return and led her outside. Andrew was waiting by Philip's roan courser, holding the reins like a good groom.

"She's being skittish about her left flank today, milord," Andrew offered, patting a hand down Lola's neck. "I moved the destrier next to her to another stall; he was all teeth."

"Thank you, Andrew." Philip still didn't have a read on the man; he'd been a perfect servant since their conversation, offering to help in all sorts of ways. Always half-expecting a touch from him, Philip had been wrong; Andrew backed off, seeming to accepting his refusal.

"May I join you?" Natasha asked, coming down the stairs; Philip didn't give away his surprise at seeing her. She was here and there, keeping her own schedule. Gone for a day or two, she'd returned only to make herself scarce when Maria had arrived.

"Please. You know more of the history than I do." He nodded to Andrew to saddle Natasha's horse; his sense of unease lightened a little to know that these two women would be riding with him. Between them, two of Maria's men, two of Clint's, and the squire behind, they could more than handle any creature they might encounter.

"Natasha, isn't it?" Maria drawled with her best intimidating glare. "I believe we've met."

"Ah, yes, Lord Stane's, if I have it correctly. Nice to see you again, Maria." She swung gracefully up into the saddle, not needing any help. "I hear you're headed north. Shall we go by the orchards? Madge will have a new batch of honey cider"

"I'd thought we'd go to the ruins. I've yet to see the Abbey. We could stop on the way back for a mug." He spurred his horse and headed out, time ever at his back, urging him forward

"I'd have thought you'd be busy with the King's visit," Natasha spoke sweetly, but there was an undercurrent of tension between the two women.

"Oh, I'll not be missed. Seems most of the court came with him with the impression there'd be a wedding feast. The King himself brought his chefs for the dinner. Fury called a series of games to placate them all." Maria shrugged as if she didn't care.

"When can we expect them here?" Philip asked. The threat of Loki had almost been forgotten in the busyness of his new life, and yet the shadow remained. "And how many?"

"That might be quite a while. Lord Stark sent word he was hosting a party to celebrate something or other – I forget exactly what and with it doesn't matter – and the King loves a good party. By then, winter will be upon you, the roads treacherous, the Capital looking much more cozy and warm." Maria's smile to Philip was more open and friendly than any glance towards Natasha. "What Prince Loki plans is anyone's guess. He plays his hand very close to his vest. Barton Manor isn't too far out of his way on his journey home."

The king could be distracted but not the Asgardian prince. Philip had hoped the marriage would put an end to whatever Loki's scheme was, but it appeared he was wrong. He lost the thread of the conversation as the women continued to spar with their words. A stab of cold, like a dagger thrust, and he couldn't breathe as the autumn colors of the leaves faded and men seemed to creep across the countryside. One glanced up and his eyes glowed blue like the cavern walls of Philip's dreams.

"Philip?" Maria's voice shattered the vision. "Have you fallen asleep on your horse?"

"Merely thinking." He couldn't shake the dark surety that gripped him. His mind flew to Clint, wondered where he was, if he was in some sort of danger. For a man Philip had only met a week ago, Clint Barton seemed to occupy a lot of his thoughts.

"Making more lists; I knew this would be a good place for you," Maria joked.

They topped a rise and saw them, men slipping into the orchard spread out below. Six that Philip could count, others moving between the trunks, already hidden among the grove. In a split second, one of them turned and saw them silhouetted on top of the hill. He called to the others.

"Ride back to the manor. Tell Carol we have bandits northeast. Send men to protect the town; we'll hold as many of them as we can here," Philip said to the squire; the young man whipped his horse around and broke into a gallop. He turned to the others.

Bandits were already coming, short bows drawn, closing the distance; they rode along the ridge to the east, staying ahead and out of arrow range. The ruins weren't far, but the pursuit was hard on their heels; Philip's heart was pounding as Lola jumped over the first tumbled wall. No matter how many times he had his hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to kill, his palms still got sweaty and his first thought was surviving. Bravery, courage … it was really sheer cursedness and the refusal to give into fear that made men fight. He led them to the warren of half-walls, jumping off his horse and smacking her rump to make her run on. The first arrows slammed into the stone as he took cover; two of the guards had crossbows and returned fire until the bandits were upon them, swords ready, eyes glowing an eerie blue.

He counted six … no, eight … and then all he could do was fight the red-haired Northman in front of him. A big two handed sword arced towards him; he blocked it with his left sword and slashed with his right. Weight and strength against Philip's speed and agility – he had to find a way past the armor, watching for the opening, and then he had it. His opponent lifted his sword and Philip plunged his in the unprotected space under his arm, pushing him back so he fell. Before he was down on the ground, another took his place, a woman with a long dark braid and a curving scimitar.

Maria covered his left side, her fighting style one of pressing every advantage, using her size to get under the taller man's reach then taking him neatly and efficiently with one stroke of her long sword. Natasha … Philip realized he hadn't seen her fight before, catching a glimpse of her flipping off of a portion of the wall, slicing with her small roundel in each hand as she landed. Like an acrobat, she tumbled out of the reach of the swing of another sword; the slim points of her daggers bit right through the leather and into the man's chest before he even knew what was happening.

The scimitar woman was good, quick on her feet and nimble. Philip had to concentrate to defend against her blows. His foot hit a loose stone and he went down on one knee; twisting out of range, he avoided the sharp iron edge. It just missed his neck and glanced off his shoulder instead, leaving a long thin slice down his bicep. The position gave him the chance to brace himself and drive his sword into her gut, in the space between breast plate and belt; her eyes widened, blinked and changed to a dark brown as she stumbled back, dropping her sword.

"Incoming!" Maria shouted. Coming from the east, more bandits swarmed over the ruins, closing in on them from behind. His focus became the clang of metal and the grunts of exertion as he parried and thrust, falling back beneath the onslaught of four men. The strange silence, not a single word spoken by their attackers, was unnerving; no hesitation, pressing forward, determined, seemingly not human at all. One of Clint's company was down, bleeding from a nasty wound. Maria was favoring her right leg, a bloody trail across her calf muscle, and still they kept coming. A buckler slammed into Philip's right wrist, numbing his hand and he dropped a sword; three of them took the advantage and attacked at once.

He thought, just then, about the sense of dread he'd had, his worries about Clint, the irony of it all. Anger flared, power bubbling up, and he released it down his sword as he slammed the blade against the chainmail of one of his opponents. The smell of burning leather and the man screamed; blue faded from his eyes and he stepped back, confused.

Clear eyed, he looked at Philip. "It's you," the bandit said, voice laced with agony. "You have to stop him, don't let him get it."

Boxed in by the others, Philip tried to get to the man, to hear what he had to say, but his back hit the wall and fighting for his own life took precedent. Pushing off of the stone, he launched himself between the two remaining bandits, pivoting on his heel and slashing as he went, using their own momentum to turn their swords against each other. A long gash across one's exposed neck, and a hard slam of pommel against the other's bare head took them out of the fight. By the time Philip could spare a glance, the other bandit was dead, blood running from the corner of his mouth.

A whoosh and thrum buzzed by his ear accompanied by a bit of a melody in his head … did he just hear music? … and a rush of energy filled his chest. Spinning, he saw the arrow sunk to the fletching in the chest of the man behind him, two more hitting the remaining bandits with frightening accuracy, each a perfect kill shot. Content that all of them were down, Philip turned to see two riders cantering up to the ruins. Clint was in the lead, Rodriguez behind.

"What can I say? Clint has excellent timing," Philip said in answer to Maria's look.

…

The outer bailey rooms weren't ideal for triage but they were clean, had enough space, and a warm fire burned in the small fireplace. Philip moved among the cots, checking on the mix of townsfolk and guard. The worst, thank the gods, was Brickman; his wound was painful and would require a long recuperation period, but Natasha and Maria had gotten the bleeding stopped in time. The rest were less serious, slashes and scratches and even one broken bone where a man had thrown his arm out to protect himself as he fell. The tally could have been much worse had they not had warning; Madge and her family were certain to have been in the line of fire as well as more townsfolk. By the time Clint and Philip had gotten to town, the skirmish had already started; Carol had mobilized a line of defense and was holding the bandits back. Clint had been nothing short of magnificent – Philip didn't bother to lie to himself about that – firing from a moving horse with startling accuracy. The sight had encouraged Philip as he waded into the fight himself, feeling renewed; there was a sense of Clint watching that made Philip stronger, more sure of himself. In the end, it had been a rout; the bandits stood no chance against Carol's plan and Clint's aim. Unfortunately, none of them survived to be questioned. In the aftermath, Philip had yet to have a chance to ask Clint how he knew that would be the outcome.

"Get away from him." Richardson, the baker, ordered. Philip stepped over to where the man's son was being tended for a forearm wound. The young man had just joined the guard and had been helping to pull the wounded out of the fray when he'd been caught by the tip of a sword. All in all, it was a minor wound, nothing more than a scar to brag about later. The problem, it seemed, was the fact that Andrew was the one slathering on the herbal poultice and getting ready to bandage the wound. To his credit, he'd been one of the first people on the scene, his bedside manner easy and calming. This was the first Philip had seen of this side of the groom.

"Excuse me." He came up behind Richardson. "Is there a problem?"

"Annamarie promised." Richardson's face was pale with worry as he gazed at his son. "I don't want my son corrupted by him."

Philip could understand the man's fear for his son, but he would nip this problem in the bud right now. As Andrew started to pull away, his eyes downcast, Philip spoke. "Is it the fact that Andrew has sex or that he has sex with men you find so abhorrent?"

The man sputtered a bit and visibly deflated. "He's my boy. I don't want him to do this, put himself in danger."

"Dad!" The young man protested. "I've made my choice. I don't want to be a baker, I want to be a fighter. I like women, okay? And I'm not a virgin, for the gods' sake. I'm seventeen."

Biting his lip to keep from smiling, Philip caught Andrew's little cough to cover his laugh. "I can see the two of you need to have a conversation. Andrew, I think Brickman's ready for his next dose. Can you see to that while Clerk Banner is busy?"

"Of course, Lord Philip." It was perhaps the first time Andrew had used his title without any trace of irony. "I'll take care of it."

Continuing into the next room, he found Carol in a quiet conversation with Natasha. "We were just discussing how fortuitous it was that we went on that ride this morning," Natasha said when Philip stopped beside her. "And Clint's very timely arrival. Carol tells me you two fought together well today."

He knew what she was asking, but he didn't have any satisfactory answers. Even now, the energy that had been shared between them was still thrumming through his veins. Forewarning had changed to strength as the day progressed, then morphed into a constant state of semi-arousal as they'd cleaned up. Just the thought of Clint, half-standing in his saddle, knees tight, bow drawn, eyes tracking a target was enough to stir Philip's cock. It was as if all that energy had to go somewhere, to build to a fever-pitch and be released. Preferably with his fingers along Clint's dirty, sweaty skin as Philip held him down and …

"Lord Philip?" William piped up. "Lord Barton's asking for you. He's in the study."

The two women shared a knowing glance that Philip resolutely ignored. With a nod to them, he headed towards the manor, avoiding Annamarie who was striding across the yard towards the bailey. Half of him worried that Clint was angry; he had, after all, left Philip in charge and they'd been attacked. Maybe he could have done something differently. But the other half was caught up in a vivid fantasy about folding Clint over the tiny desk just like in his dreams. Running his hands down Clint's back, kissing the curve of his neck, curling his fingers around … He brought himself up short as he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him before he looked up.

Like a fist slamming into his solar plexus, seeing Clint knocked all the breath out of Philip's chest, leaving only a burning ache. He'd untied his vest, and tossed it over a chair. His linen shirt was half out of the waist band of his trousers and his chainmail still hung from his shoulders; his sword belt was laid aside, so the leather pants hung low on his hips. Messy and standing on end, his hair stuck in sweaty clumps to the side of his face and hung wet at the back of his neck. Dirt smudged along his cheek and brow, his shirt stained with darker spots, and Philip had never seen someone as attractive in his whole life. He should say something logical, rational, like "good to see you" or "glad you were there" or "what do you need." That was what he should do. But he looked directly into those stormy blue-green eyes and all conscious thought blew away.

Philip knew from experience that you did everything possible to keep the separate pockets of flame from coming close to each other in a wild fire. Alone, they'd burn and take out large swaths of land and trees. Get near to another, and they'd jump across the space, combine and combust, bursting violently into balls of fire that consumed massive amounts of fuel and expended even more energy. You build breaks, dug trenches, and do anything possible to stop that from happening. What he didn't know was that the same could happen between people.

Need flashed into being, so strong he couldn't fight it, could only go where it lead and that was crashing into Clint's body, trapping him against the desk and yanking his head back. He took Clint's mouth with a desperate and rough kiss, caught his hips tight and ground their cocks together. The friction only stoked the fire; energy pooled in his hands, pulsing in time to his racing heartbeat. Then Clint's hands circled, clasped his ass, and gathered him closer, and Philip knew he was lost in a storm like he'd never known. He wanted his tongue in the velvety wetness of Clint's mouth, and he stroked along the ridge of teeth until he swallowed the first moan he dragged from Clint's throat. He craved bare skin, so he tugged Clint's shirt up over his head, but when Clint tried to take off his mail, Philip stopped him with a curt, "No" so laced with power that Clint's eyes rolled back and his cock jumped against Philip's hip. The cool metal was a contrast as the temperature spiraled higher between then; he liked the feel of it pressed into his chest as he bit down on Clint's lip and earned a loud gasp of pleasure.

"Off," Clint said as he pushed back. Agile fingers shoved his hands aside; Philip's belt went onto the desk, his vest thrown backwards, and his shirt ended up hanging from the corner of a chair. Skin glided across skin like a wind across a fire, stirring desire to new heights. A palm splayed on Clint's lower back, another circled his neck, fingers burrowing into damp hair, and Philip pinned him again as he dived back into Clint's mouth and the heat of his body. Clint grabbed Philip, hands around his head, thumbs stroking along the line of his jaw. Prickles of stubble scraped down Philip's neck as Clint kissed his way along the curve, sucking bruises as he went.

The jolt of the desk hitting the wall of shelves made books tumble off, loud thumps as they hit the stone floor. They paused, looked at each other through the haze of lust, and Philip leaned in to whisper, "Shhhhhhhhh. Someone might hear us."

Clint moaned. "Oh," he drew the word out, long and low. His eyes opened, dark and stormy. "I want you to fuck me. Right here."

"So hard." Philip agreed, reaching for the small jar in his belt pouch.

There was no stopping the blaze now; they were gone to it, this building force that circled between them. Boots and pants went, Philip flipped Clint around and bent him forward where he braced his hands on the shelves as Philip slicked a finger and pressed inside. Caught up in the rush, he didn't think about his inexperience; somehow he knew exactly what Clint liked, just how rough, just the right spot to aim for. When Clint bucked back, he added another finger, tilted his wrist, and made Clint stifle a cry. Too impatient to wait long, there was no denying themselves; Philip slicked his cock and replaced fingers with his aching cock, pushing in. The tight heat was almost too much; he could easily come just from the way Clint clenched around him.

"Yes," Clint dropped his head and pushed back taking him in a little more. "Gods, yes."

Pulling out halfway, Philip slipped back in, wrapped an arm around Clint's waist and licked a drop of sweat that dribbled down Clint's neck before he nipped where the muscle connected. In his gut he felt the coil tighten and he thrust again, then again, senses stretched by the intimacy of the joining, each plunge bringing them closer to a place he'd never been. The desk rocked as Philip snapped his hips hard, papers floated down, and a ledger tilted and fell.

Clint was groaning with each thrust now, and Philip wrapped a hand around Clint's mouth to muffle the sound. "Shhhhhhh," he whispered again.

"Fucking librarian," Clint managed to say between Philip's fingers before he sucked one in.

The table leg gave out and they went rolling onto the floor; Philip's knee slammed into the stone and Clint ended up on his back, knocking into the chairs in front of the fire. None of that stopped them from finding each other again. Hooking Clint's knee over his shoulder, Philip thrust in hard, looping a hand around Clint's thigh and splaying his other on Clint's hip. Bent almost double, Clint scrabbled until he found Phil's shoulders to hold onto … and the connection fell into place. Pleasure reverberated from one to the other, the power crackled along skin, and Philip sensed the edge approaching. He wrapped his hand around Clint's cock and only needed two strokes before Clint was coming with a shout, the warm splash of his orgasm on Phil's fingers. The energy spilled over at the same time, expanding outward in a wave that took him under. Burying his face in Clint's leg, he strained forward in his own release, rode the waves of his orgasm, and heard the faint strains of a full-chorded melody, words and odd phrases mixed together

"Phil." Clint's voice was calm, even. He opened his eyes, and saw Clint looking past his shoulder. The desk was floating a few inches off the floor. Books were lazily spinning in place, tiny black spheres of ink bouncing off each other, and the fire flamed with a purple hued light. "It's all right."

"No. I …" He couldn't find the words to explain what was happening. Panic invaded Philip's content afterglow, and everything crashed to the ground; he reached for Clint's hand, uncaring of the mess, the words spilling from his mouth. "It's a fixed mark never shaken by the storm."

"Did you hear it too?" was Clint's soft question. A soft glow engulfed their entwined fingers, and Philip sat back on the floor as a wave of exhaustion over took him.

"I don't know what to do about it," Philip admitted.

"First, we clean up in here. We'll talk about this later, preferably in our nice soft bed after I've taken you apart slowly, piece by piece." Clint levered himself up as a knock sounded on the door. "All's well, Nat," he called.

"Oh, gods, what story are we going to tell them?"

"I think they know already know what we've been up to. Turns out, you're the loud one."


	7. The Calm

Clint was worried about Phil; he was putting on a good face but Clint had seen the exhaustion in his husband's eyes along with the embarrassed blush in his cheeks as they'd left the study. To Clint, used to close quarters of a traveling company, being overheard didn't matter, but Philip came from a different kind of life. He'd stammered when he'd seen Natasha at the end of the hallway, guarding the doorway from prying eyes, and she'd let him brush past her without a word, just an arch of her eyebrow. Not that Clint understood what happened any more than Philip; a post-battle rush he knew, but the need that overwhelmed him, the stirring of energies between them? Beyond being the most intense experience he'd ever had, he knew there was a relationship between the warning that had driven him to ride hard to get home, the absolute awe at seeing Philip fighting, the moment of pure terror when the bandit had loomed up behind Phil, and the destruction they'd wrought in the study. There was really only one possible answer.

As he'd told Old Man Singer, he had some experience with magic. The further one got from the civilized Midlands, the less the rules applied, and the Outer Isles were the very edges. There'd been a gambler turned pirate who could make his cards into weapons, and a mercenary who seemed unable to die. Clint had visited real fortune tellers and even heard about a witch who sold hex bags that worked. But what Philip had done? Clint had never seen that much power.

"Magic? Are we ready to say it out loud?" Carol was the first to bring it out in the open. They'd been dancing around saying it since they'd come together in the Great Hall to hash through the events of the day. "Because we'll be better able to plan our defense if we admit what we're facing."

Standing behind Philip's chair, Clint rested his hand on Phil's shoulders and felt a trickle of energy bleed from his fingers into the tired muscles beneath. "Singer said it was a spell, an order that has to be followed, in this case to find something." Clint kept the detail about the bandits wanting to kill him out of the discussion.

"A geas." Philip said. "There are three basic kinds: an oath, a binding, and coerced. An oath is like a promise with a little more teeth; one person swears to complete a task. Limited time and the penance for failure is light. Bindings need two people who make a pact between them. The ritual is more involved, failure more serious. Coerced is just that; it is forced upon another. Tantamount to rape of the will. There is no failure, only death. To coerce more than 30 men? That's mythical. Or I guess I should say, it was until today." A moment of silence and a number of stares … except Maria Hill, Clint noticed. She seemed completely unfazed by Philip's knowledge.

"The bodies bear all the hallmarks of magical residue," Banner joined in. "Vascular hemorrhages, signs of dehydration and exhaustion … I can't know without an autopsy, but I imagine I'll find enlarged hearts and brains. Magic is hard on the body."

"Does everyone here know more about this than me?" Carol complained, only half-joking.

"I just nod and pretend to understand," Maria offered. "Philip's been studying his whole life, so I've learned to accept his knowledge is endless."

"Theory, that's all it is. Most of what I know I learned from songs and stories, oral histories written down by clerks." Philip had tensed as he spoke; Clint squeezed his fingers in empathy. Having magic had to be a difficult way to grow up. The impulse to secrecy would be ingrained along with the fear of discovery. What Philip had to do to avoid detection, Clint couldn't imagine.

"There are rumors of books out there, Tottle's Miscellany, the original writings of The Venerable Martin and King Ruel. But no one's ever seen a copy," Banner said.

"Tarian Castle has two of Ruel's journals, but they're partial pieces, a section that reads like a creation story and another about kinslaying. Martin says magic comes from faith in the part I've read; it's rare and unstable at best. Tottle's is a legend; it doesn't exist."

Bruce's eyes lit up. "You've held Martin and Ruel? Are they really so small?"

"A third the size of normal texts, with the tiniest of print," Philip replied.

"Can we get back to the problem at hand? Too many dead bandits for comfort," Natasha interjected. "You can compare libraries later."

"And the question of who could cast such a spell, that's important," Carol added.

"We start with the locations." Philip had spread a map on the table after sending William to get it from the hastily reorganized study. "We need to determine why these four, what they have in common, and what specifically they were looking for. That will lead us back to the who and how."

"Agreed," Maria said. "Were we back at home, you could search the library and have the answers in a few days." She meant nothing by her words, but it rankled Clint. This was Philip's home now. A spark built in his fingers then a warmth touched him, and he looked down to see Philip's hand covering his own briefly before retreating; leaning forward, eyes on the parchment, Philip didn't even notice what he'd done.

"Jasper is the one who developed the indexing system; he'll be much faster at locating the right books. And his work is more likely to go unnoticed by the King and Prince Loki," Philip said. Maria's eyes flitted to Clint's hand, and the edges of her lips curled up.

"I imagine you packed a few books in those wagons as well, ones you thought might be useful." She took the gentle rebuke in stride. "We'll head out in the morning."

Annamarie came in with more cider, a delicious smell wafting through the door behind her, a spicy cabbage soup Dax had proclaimed was his mother's recipe. Bustling around them, she filled their mugs. "Dinner will be ready in a half hour; if you don't want everyone privy to your business, you'd best finish before then."

"Still as sassy as ever, I see." When Clint first saw Annamarie, he'd been surprised that she'd agreed to take on her late mother's role, but he'd forgotten just how strong she'd been even as a girl. "If any snakes turn up in my bed, I'll know who to blame."

"Ha, that was you, Clint Barton." She sat down the pitcher and put her hands on her hips. "Ink on my pigtails, and you ruined my bread by replacing the salt with sugar."

"I remember things quite differently." They'd been like that as children, Annamarie only two years older than him and living in the manor with her mother. Always trading pranks back and forth, sometimes at each other's throats and sometimes thick as thieves. "Did she tell you that she was my first kiss? She wanted to practice on someone before she kissed the boy she was madly in love with. What was his name? Ethan? Edward? Eric?"

"Timothy Dugan," Annamarie said as she ignored Clint's jabs, point to the marked areas on the map. "All of these relate to him if you believe the old stories."

"Dum Dum Dugan?" Philip asked. Clint wracked his brain to remember where he'd heard that name before. "Thane of Lord Rogers?"

"Wait, the tales your grandfather used to regale us with?" Clint asked. He'd always been asked to spin a tale on long winter nights and he'd known very old ones.

"The legend goes that during the final days, many of those last battles were fought here." Annamarie's voice changed, taking on the musical cadence of a storyteller. "The Red Sorcerer changed the very landscape with his magics, and only the hardiest of the people stayed in their homes. Most fled to the security of the middle lands, but Lord Roger's thanes hounded the evil sorcerer, leaving him no way to escape."

"Hawk's Leap," Clint pointed to the location. "The bandit's base. We can add that point as well."

"The battle where Lord Rogers comes close to winning; the Red Sorcerer had to use all of his remaining power to create the tor, only just escaping." Philip nodded then noticed the looks of the others. "My father was a scholar; he wrote a number of books on Lord Rogers including one positing which real sites correspond to the myths. Hawk's Leap was on his short list as the Battle of the Bavria."

"_The Real Paladin_?" Banner asked. "I've read that one. Interesting if a little … thorough."

"Obsessive. You can say that. A good man, my father, but his studies were his first love," Philip calmly replied. "Please continue, Annamarie."

"Howling Vale, the place that Thane Barnes fell." She touched the remote spot. Philip looked like he wanted to say something, but he stayed silent and let her continue. "Lord Rogers pursued the Red Sorcerer to his fortress at the highest peak of the mountains, where the Great Red Dragon lay waiting his master's bidding … and you know the story from there so I'll jump ahead to Dugan's final days … As my grandfather told it, Dugan met a young woman here while recovering from his injuries; after Lord Rogers disappeared, the thanes split up to go back to their homes, and Dugan returned for his love. They married and settled in what would come to be known as Caine's Crossing, named in honor of Dugan's eldest son. Depending upon who you ask, you'll hear that the wife was a Frasier, a Ferguson, or a McCarter, the three oldest families of the holding. Everyone claims to be descendants of Dugan."

"And the other locations?" Carol asked. "How do they relate?"

"The burrows are where Dugan is supposedly buried; he was much older than his wife, so she outlived him and retired to the Abbey to live out the last of her days after her daughter-in-law took over the household. They also supposedly came to Frasier Town regularly, even had a house there."

Clint unfocused his eyes and surveyed the map again. A deep breath and he centered himself, a pulse of energy flowing up his arm. "They think Dugan had an item of power, something that would have been present during the battles, something he brought back with him when he settled down."

"There's one tale," Philip said, "where Lord Rogers stripped off his armor, left his sword and shield with his thanes before he took on the dragon. An ancient idea that a warrior was made great by strength of will, not his armaments. It's an odd tale; the rest all agree Stephen's famous weapons went down with him."

"Roger's sword or shield? That would be worth an immeasurable amount of gold." Natasha, ever the practical one, noted.

"Weren't they supposed to be magical? His whole armor as well. Enspelled with a number of protections," Banner said.

"Beyond all, the finding would validate those who believe sorcerers and dragons existed." Clint was thinking ahead. "Some groups would prefer magic stay a legend."

"So we're looking for someone who wants to find whatever Dugan had, assuming he had anything to begin with, and is willing to expend untold amounts of energy to get it." Philip took up the thread. "To gain the power, to keep it hidden, to cause trouble or another reason we haven't even thought of."

"We find it before he does. Or she. Then they come to us." Carol put down her mug. Heads nodded in agreement

"There are ways to look," Banner said. "It will give off a certain signature that a sensitive could pick up, if you can find one. There will be other clues; magic draws certain types of creatures and strong power can affect the weather patterns."

"The rugars and the gimlets? You think this thing is upsetting them?" Clint was sure all of the incidents in the last few years were related. "But if there is something, it's been sitting around for centuries without any problem."

"There's a cave down near the shore on Stark land, uncovered by a hurricane a few years ago. They found machines and a whole trove of books, carefully packed away, because a torch began to emit light after the storm," Philip suggested. "If this thing's been activated, it could be causing the animals to react. Or it could have drawn something else here that's got them scared."

"I know a woman who can find things just by thinking about them; she makes a good living in the Capital working in the Sonian Library locating items in storage," Natasha said. "The trip would take a few weeks, but I could have her here before the Fall Festival. She owes me."

Philip tensed, and Clint knew he was thinking of his own secret. It was going to take time for Philip to realize he was safe here, that his magic wasn't something any of them feared. First steps first; the two of them needed to talk. Clint just hoped he could manage to stay awake long enough; the hard ride to get here and then the battle had left him tired as well.

"Carol, split up some teams, people we can trust, and send them out to canvas these areas. Annamarie, any more history or stories you can remember, bring them to Philip to correlate. Nat, head out in the morning to get your friend. Tell her we'll pay for her time. And Thane Hill, I'd appreciate if you'd bring the situation to Lord Fury's attention plus send us any information your man can find." Clint saw the pages hovering at the doorway, ready to begin setting up for dinner. "I'll send word to Jessica to talk to Old Man Singer, see what he knows, maybe drag him here as well."

The guards' laughter filled the hall as they began to trickle in to their places. A successful defense of the city with no fatalities was something worth celebrating; Clint just wished he'd had time to do more than a quick wash before dinner began. A clean shirt and vest helped, but the water in the pitcher had been cold and his hair was dirty against his scalp. He was getting soft; there'd been times when he went months without more than a dip in a stream or river, but living in the manor reminded him of warm baths and his mother's favorite rosemary scented soap.

More people crowded the benches than Clint had seen before; three tables were filled with townspeople, women and men of varying ages. Carol sat among unfamiliar guards, and Clint could see his company mixed throughout, newcomers hanging on the tales of the veterans. The squires and the three boys ran between tables, bringing out fragrant pots of a steaming soup that smelled of chilies with just a touch of maple and looked like fall in a cup. A couple young women brought out coarse brown bread that, when torn open, was dense and chewy inside with a hint of nuttiness. Occasionally, Annamarie stepped into the doorway from the kitchen, surveying the organized chaos, nodded to herself, and stepped away.

"You've been busy," Clint said to Philip; his replying smile was confident.

"This is just the beginning. The Hall's roof is progressing nicely, and we think we have time to get a whole new one on the surviving wing before first snowfall. I have so much to get your opinion on … the guardhouse plans are ready and, if we go with a plaster and lathe temporary construction, we can get something up before Winter Fest. That will alleviate the overcrowding, and if we shore up the walls of the stables, add doors, and heating pipes from the main fireplace, we'll have room for all the guard and most of the servants with some space here in the Manor for Annamarie." Philip tilted his bowl and caught the last drops with his spoon.

The main course arrived, roast beef with crispy potatoes seasoned with a reddish spice. Everyone tucked in, the hearty meal what they needed after a fight. Clint found himself with little time to ponder all that Philip had accomplished; Banner struck up a conversation about Philip's father's theories and the two spoke across Clint. He joined in when he thought he had something to add, and, surprisingly, he knew some tidbits from his travels that neither man had ever heard before. Soon, the plates disappeared, his glass was filled with yet another glass of dark red wine, and Clint decided it was time to make a circuit of the room. As he pushed back his chair, he felt worn down, but he pushed it aside.

"Introduce me?" He asked Philip, holding out his hand. Surprised, Philip nodded and slipped his palm into Clint's. They went down the steps of the dais together. Lord and Lady, Lord and Lord, the visual was the same; they were a unified front. Plus, he enjoyed watching Philip work his way around the room. At every stop, Philip knew the peoples' names and a little about them; Clint shook hands with the workers, tipped his head slightly to young women, and slapped new guard members on the back, wishing them well. They ended up near Carol who was sitting beside Jamison with his leg propped up on a stool. Just then a platter of little pastries appeared; triangles of cobweb thin layers of dough decked with cinnamon, sugar, and nuts mixed in between and a sweet syrup over it all that stuck to Clint's fingers and made him immediately reach for another.

"Rachel was right," Philip said after he snagged a second piece from the quickly emptying plate. "Melts in your mouth."

"Rachel made these?" Clint asked; Jamison laughed and smacked Andrew's hand away from the last pastry.

"And the bread. She made a pecan pie the other night so good that I thought blood might be spilled over the last slice. Woman has magic fingers … among other things," Jamison said.

"True. I'd have fought any who'd tried to take my slice," Carol agreed. "Mark my words, the likes of Stark or some Capital nobleman will be luring her away once the word gets out."

"Aye, that would make her happy." Andrew winked. "Always has said she was destined for great things or great men whichever came first." The whole table laughed at the word play.

"How's Brickman?" Philip asked Andrew, and Clint wondered when the two of them had come to the point that they were talking to each other so civilly.

"Feeling no pain and complaining about missing dessert. I told him he could stand to skip a few sweets," Andrew said with a smile. "Clerk Banner's very good; looks like Brickman will make a full recovery."

"You're working with Banner?" Clint felt like he was a few steps behind, and he wasn't sure he liked that.

"Just helping. Mostly holding hands and applying bandages." Andrew absently patted Clint on the knee. He narrowed his eyes and looked hard at Clint. "However, I know enough to tell you are close to falling over. Lord Philip, you need to take this man to bed."

Clint sputtered as red flushed up Philip's neck, but before he could answer, Philip spoke. "He does look tired, I agree." He raked his eyes over Clint up and down. "However, I'm not sure that's the best recipe for rest."

Laughter burst out at Philip's calm assertion, and Clint masked his surprise. He'd seen the awkward Philip in the bedroom, when discussing desire made him blush. Here Philip was, joking and at ease.

"Rodriguez is asleep as we speak," Carol said. "After days in the saddle and the fighting, she was more than willing to take the teasing if it meant she got some rest. No one will begrudge you, both of you, an early evening." Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief; she obviously had heard about the noise from the study, and from the looks the others shared, their earlier tryst was well-known.

"You rode straight here?" Philip asked; of course he didn't know. Clint hadn't had time to share more than a few private words … if he didn't count the pleas to be taken in the study.

"It wasn't that far," Clint said, shrugging off the feat. Philip didn't look like he wanted to let it go, but he did. "I admit some cool sheets and a soft bed would be welcome."

"You should go," Philip took his hand, and Clint followed, content to be led if it meant they might have a few moments together.

"Only if you come with me." Clint tugged him to one side of the stairs. "To talk."

He thought Philip was going to decline but then he nodded. "Let me speak to Annamarie while you make our apologies." It didn't take long to take their leave; a few people even mentioned Clint's long ride and the battle earlier. Natasha merely raised an eyebrow, and Banner handed him a tisane mix for a restful sleep. He slipped out the door and down the hallway, catching Annamarie leaving their room with a knowing smile on her face that made him stop. She waved him in and hurried away.

In front of the fireplace, the chairs and tables moved out of the way, was a large metal bathing tub. It wasn't deep – the sides would come up to his armpits when he sat inside - but the long length was unusual. Clint could probably lie down in it, completely immersed, and maybe even float. By the fireplace, a kettle of water was heating.

"Where did you find that?" Clint had to ask.

"Annamarie. It belonged to the Beorn family; from what I understand, he was a large man and had it special made. He passed away last year and the wife was happy to sell it off to the Lord of the Manor. After your long journey, I thought you might enjoy cleaning up a bit."

"Oh gods, yes. Going to bed clean is a luxury that's worth the trouble." Clint started unbuttoning his vest. "One of the things I never thought I'd miss. I hated baths when I was a boy. The water would be cold by the time I got my turn, all dirty with soap scum." He tossed his vest over a chair and pulled his shirt out of his pants. "I saw this bath in a Magistrate's house down in Aimi Keys. A tiled circle in the floor with seats around the edge, you could sink up to your neck. Water went out through a drain in the floor; just pull out the plug and it was gone."

"Stark has water that flows from a pipe into his tub with drains as well. The water sits in a tank beside the fireplace so it's warm when it comes out." Philip dipped a finger to test the water temperature. "We could easily put drains in the rebuilt section of the Manor, a nice big tub in its own room. The inflow pipes are a different story; we'd need a specialized craftsman for that."

"A bathing room? My mother would have loved that. Her weekly baths were one of her great pleasures. Woe to anyone who interrupted her. The maids would keep refreshing the water for a good hour. It was her one luxury; water was free." Clint sat down on the edge of the bed and started pulling off his boots. After the first one hit the floor, he took off his sock and wiggled his toes.

"My mother always had dirt under her fingernails; she was an avid gardener. " Philip was just standing, watching Clint undress. With a sigh, Clint decided he'd have to address the problem head on.

"I thought this discussion might be easier in a tub of hot water; it's big enough for two." Clint tugged off the second boot. "After the study earlier, I had hoped we were past the awkwardness." He padded over in his bare feet to where Philip stood. "I agreed to this marriage because I needed someone who could organize this place, help get it back on its feet. Plus, Fury's protection is important to keeping my people safe, although what Fury got in exchange I can't understand. But this," Clint raised his hand and ran his thumb along Philips jaw; Phil shivered and his eyes widened, "was a bonus I never expected. So can we acknowledge it instead of fight it?"

Just a week and Clint already knew that crinkle of his forehead meant Philip was thinking, so he waited, stroking his fingers along the side of Philip's face and down his neck. When his eyelids drifted closed, Clint had won the battle.

"The water should be hot enough." Swinging the iron arm out, Philip brought the pot over the tub.

A knock on the door, and Annamarie came in with an armful of clean towels. "I brought a couple, just in case. Here's some of Donegal's soap – a nice masculine scent, don't worry. Toss the towels outside the door when you're done, and I'll send someone in who can be quiet," she said, hardly glancing at Clint's bare chest.

"I could have been naked, you know," Clint pushed back; he had to thank Philip for getting her to agree to this position. Having her around reminded him of some of the best parts of his childhood.

"Like I haven't seen it all already," she huffed. "Always did have a problem with shirts, and you were constantly skinny dipping down by the mill."

"First time we met, he had his shirt off," Philip said.

"I've heard that story," she dropped the towels on the edge of the bed and handed the soap over to Clint. "Be a good one to tell your heirs one day. Get some rest. You both deserve it."

After she shut the door, Philip tipped up the pot and the water filled the tub. Clint stripped off his pants and tossed them with his shirt. A perfect temperature, Clint swung his foot over and got in, his body slowly growing accustomed as he sank down.

"So, your mother liked to garden and your father was a scholar?" He sat back in the tub, his feet not touching the other end and looked expectantly up at Philip. Watching the other man undress was a treat; Philip took care of his clothes, folding them neatly since he'd changed before dinner. Clint relaxed into the heat and enjoyed the reveal of each area of skin.

"They were both gentle souls. Had my father not been an only child, he'd have ended up at university. He was always happiest surrounded by his books." Philip blushed under Clint's stare as he took off his boots and reached for his laces. "Mother's talent was herbs; she made salves, soaps, and lotions. Unfortunately, neither of them had the ability to run a holding, even a small one like Coul Hall."

Clint dipped the soap in the water and started lathering up his hands. "Is that Fury's land now?"

"Actually, it's part of yours; Nick gifted it to me on my eighteenth birthday. One of my cousins lives there with her family; she's quite adept with finances and has a passel of heirs to choose from." Long and lean body on display, Philip didn't know what to do with his hands, so he motioned Clint to slide forward and sat down behind him. The water level rose but stopped short of the rim as Philip's legs slipped between Clint and the metal sides. "She takes after my grandmother Margerite de Valois. Megs, as she liked to be called, was gifted with the organizational skills to mount a major military campaign. After my parents married, she moved in with my mother and took over management, much to my father's delight. Mother's family is in line for the throne – 42nd, I believe at this point – but they are poor relations. Coulson was a new name in the registry; all told, their union could have been much worse. They were … companionable. We had discussions at the dinner table about history and botany, and Megs taught me everything I needed to know to be a good steward."

He reached around and Clint dropped the bar into his palm; within a minute, sudsy hands were massaging his back. Clint tried not to flinch when Philip's fingers traced over an old sword scar on his back. "And where does the magic come from?"

Philip's hands stilled for an agonizing second then started moving again.

"Now that's an interesting story." His laugh was hollow and bitter. "Contrary to rumors, mother was not a witch. Her talent was well within the range of normal behavior. Father was intelligent, very good at solving puzzles, but he too was normal. The magic came from my paternal grandfather, Albert Coulson. He died when I was just a year old, but according to his valet, he could light a candle, move things, and control people with incantations."

Clint snagged the bucket and scooped up some water to pour over his head and wet his hair before washing it. "Like levitating the books and furniture in the library?"

"Not exactly the same. Magic is different for each person, but Grandfather Coulson was a wizard and I'm not." Philip's fingers pushed Clint's aside and massaged into his scalp, scrubbing his hair clean. The feeling was so domestic and still sent a rush of heat down to Clint's cock which stirred even more; sitting naked together, Philip's knees against Clint's sides, his feet tucked under Clint's shins was giving Clint ideas, waking parts of him up. "Witches and wizards need spells or recipes; they make potions, mixtures, elixirs, use incantations, all of which are limited in scope. That's why they are the most common types of magic users; they're still around today, just very low powered."

"And a mage?" Clint slumped down when he rinsed his hair, keeping the water in the tub. Of course it made sense that Philip had researched the topic to learn as much as he could.

"Mages and Sorcerers are rarer. They don't need components or spells; they use the force of their will to control the energies and their body as a conduit." Philip seemed to hesitate then, his fingers floating away. "You truly want me to act upon this?"

For a second, Clint didn't understand the question then Philip's hands settled on the small of his back with gentle touches. "Yes. There is no shame about admitting desires between us."

"Slide back then," Philip asked, tugging. Clint scooted back until he could lean onto Philip's chest and rest his head on Philip's shoulder. Their bodies molded together and Clint draped his arms along the rim of the tub as Philip's arms circled his waist. A steady heartbeat matched his own, breaths synced, and he hardened further at the feel of Philip's own cock jumping in response.

"Better?" A hum, low but consistent, kept Clint's exhaustion at bay. "So. Mages are rare?"

He could feel the vibration of the words send little tremors through their skins as Philip spoke. "Only seen in times of great tribulation, when sorcerers arise."

"And that's what you are." Not a question; Clint was sure. Philip tightened his thighs as he tensed his body; turning his head, Clint touched his nose to the skin along the sensitive line of Philip's neck. "You're not a sorcerer, Phil. I've heard the stories too. They are twisted and dark, self-centered with no empathy. You are the complete opposite."

Philip let out a long breath and shifted closer. "My grandfather was not a good man, Clint. He was harsh and treated the servants terribly. One time he thought a maid had been stealing and told her to 'go away; she walked until she passed out. Only a passerby saved her from freezing to death. Had he been more powerful, who knows what he would have become?"

"You didn't fire any of the company or the followers, Phil. You somehow have the three terrors calling you Lord Philip and wearing clean clothes on a daily basis. Annamarie came back because you asked her. In a week's time, I've got a partial new roof, a clerk in town, and better food than I've had in ages. You care about people." Clint only had to tilt his head up slightly, and their lips were close enough for a gentle caress. Slow and sweet, he dropped a series of little kisses across and back along the full bottom lip. Dropping his hands onto Philip's knees, he wiggled his ass and laughed when Philip's cock strained against him. The hum grew into a melody that was faint but discernible as he explored Philip's mouth.

"What is magic like for you?" Philip whispered, his breath puffs of heat along Clint's cheek.

"Me? I don't have any magic," Clint denied.

The music jangled and then Philip splayed his hands on Clint's stomach and it settled back into harmony. "Clint, I've never seen a reaction between two people like this before, have never even read about something like this."

"It's just a talent like you said, within the range of normal. That's all." He'd refused it for so long that it was second nature even when faced with concrete evidence. Just practice and experience and exercise, nothing special. Clint was a mess, not a magic user.

"Clint." Philip slipped his other hand further down until it rested on Clint's thigh in the warm water. "Fury chose you as one of his thanes. He picked you for a reason; that's his gift, sensing potential. He's the reason Lord Stoner gave me a second glance. You have a gift that's powerful."

He shook his head. "I'm just a mercenary who never expected to inherit," he argued. Gift was a term reserved for the heroes of old stories, those with enhanced abilities who could tap into the power around them, and that wasn't him.

"Who happens to have three loyal thanes and a company that loves you?" Philip's fingers traced circles on his sensitive inner thigh and the top of his hand; Clint had trouble thinking coherently when the harmony thrummed in rhythm. "You're more than that, and you know it."

"I can't …" He gave himself and let it carry him up as the slide of skin against skin built. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Fury thinks we can hold the line here because he believes what's coming is bad, doesn't he?"

"Yes." That was all Philip needed to say; the specifics might be cast in shadow, but there was no denying what was in front of them. Philip was an untrained powerful mage, and Clint's own gift was manifesting.

"I've always heard notes when I shoot, a simple melody, but it's changing now. Fuller, more tones." The theme grew more complex as he spoke as if the words themselves incited new heights.

"Mmmmm," Philip nuzzled into Clint's hair. "They say that some Breton and Pictish heroes sang during battle."

"I've sung for my supper before, but never during a fight." Clint's hand covered Philip's and shifted it a little higher so his fingers brushed the aching skin of Clint's cock. He gave a long slow sigh as Philip traced up and down, light and teasing. Clint busied his own hands rubbing along Philip's legs, encouraging the exploration. Fingers curled around and Philip's thumb stroked the silky head, circling and finding the spot just below the cleft that made Clint bite back a moan. Philip drew a line back along the vein, just the right pressure, and Clint couldn't help the tiny little thrust his hips gave in response. The music became more primal, a major chord with a driving beat; Philip's other hand made a slow journey up to tweak Clint's nipple and a spark of energy added to the mix. Clint wrapped his hand around Phil's and started a rhythm, an undercurrent that matched the song playing in his head.

"What do you think about bookshelves?" Clint asked, closing his eyes to enjoy the wet slide of hands. "In the master's bedroom for the new wing. A fireplace with plenty of room for chairs and a table or desk for us. A mini-library. And a big bed…" he paused as the tension coiled in his gut, "…with sturdy slats for you to hold onto."

Philip's laugh was easy and natural; he pinched Clint's nipple in reply. "To go with the bathing room? I'll ask the architect to add some chains as well, shall I?"

"Considering … oh … what everyone heard this afternoon …" Clint arched up into Philip's hand as he twisted just below the tip then dragged back down. "Oh, Phil … I don't think … any request … will … surprise …" He stopped trying to form words and groaned at the sensation; even as weary as he was, Phil's touch energized him and pushed him right to the edge of release. Dropping his head back, he turned and buried his head in Philip's neck, breathing in the scent of soap and the faint hint of sweat as he fell apart, muscles clenching and releasing until he felt like he was floating on the music, buoyed up by the water.

"Ready to stand up?" Philip asked; Clint didn't know how long he'd been half-out of consciousness. The bone-deep need for rest was back, but he could manage to get out of the tub and take care of Phil first. Pulling himself up with some effort, he reached for a towel; rather than dry off, he turned and wrapped the cloth around Philip's back, drawing him until their wet bodies were plastered against each other. Clint kissed him then, the heat from the fire warming one side and the cool air of the room chilling the other. Drops of water ran down from his hair, gliding over cheeks and along his jaw as he slipped his tongue between Philip's lips and languidly stroked inside. The hard line of Philip's cock rested along Clint's hip bone, the beads of pearly pre-liquid rubbing against his bare skin. Holding the edges of the towel tight, he kept Phil trapped there, at his mercy to explore every inch of lips and then nibble along the curve of his jaw, the raspy stubble under his tongue. When Philip shivered, Clint finally pulled back and let him go; stepping over the metal side, they both got out of the water and Clint used the chill as an excuse to towel Philip dry, touching as much skin as he could before he gave a quick tousle to his own hair. Tossing the cloth on the floor, he pushed Philip against the footboard and kissed along Phil's neck and shoulder, nipping as he switched sides. Then the hollow of Philip's collarbone, a line down his chest, and Clint swiped his tongue over one nipple as his hands cupped the curve of Philip's ass. The most delicious noises came from deep in Philip's throat and urged Clint to suck the nub into his mouth.

"Oh," was Philip's exclamation as his hips arched out; he grabbed onto the footboard rail when Clint moved to the other nipple and gave it as much attention as the first. Weariness made him slower, more thorough; his full attention given over to Philip's quickening breaths. He gave in, then, following the trail of dark soft hair and easing down to his knees. Energy pulsed with each graze of lips until he could feel it dancing beneath his scalp and along his spine. Adjusting his hands, he anchored his thumbs on Philip's hip bones and blew warm air along the hard length, glancing up to watch Philip's eyes squeeze close and his lips part in a moan. Clint started by following the cleft then circling around the edge with just the tip of his tongue, catching the drops that hung there.

"Gods," Philip groaned. Thorough hooded eyes, Clint looked up one last time then slowly swallowed the head and sucked gently. "Oh, oh, oh."

A little further each time, Clint slid down and back up, increasing the pressure as he did. Phil was heavy and silky in his mouth; Clint enjoyed every sensation from the tickle of wiry hair on his nose to the too full feeling when Phil bumped the back of his throat to the way Philip's muscles flexed and tensed under his palms. Abortive small thrusts signaled Philip needed more, but he held himself back; Clint pulled off and reached carefully for Phil's hands. With deliberate movements, he placed each one around the back of his head and put his own back on Phil's hips. Then he waited, mouth poised just beyond the tip of Phil's aching cock. The first push was far too gentle, so Clint swirled his tongue and rubbed the dip at the back of the head. Phil gasped and thrust in harder, his fingers clenching into Clint's hair. Humming along with the melody in his head, Clint raised his tongue and scraped along the bottom as Philip thrust again, and he knew he'd won when Philip cursed, hung onto Clint's head and began to jerk his hips harder.

More aware now, Clint could feel the musical energy dance along his skin, flowing out of Philip's hands and along Clint's arms. As Philip's body's tension rose, so too did the charge; when he stuttered and strained, Philip tried to pull out to finish, but Clint refused, taking him down to the root and swallowing when Philip came with a cry. Philip sagged against the bed, and Clint swiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb, licking it clean, grinning at his husband's eyes so wide and blown open by pleasure.

"No one's ever done that," Philip murmured.

"You've never had a …" Clint couldn't believe that.

"Swallowed." Philip's smiled was very much like a cat that'd gotten into the cream. "It's very … intimate."

Hoisting himself up, Clint leaned in, stopping just short of Phil's lips. "Would you like a taste?" When Philip nodded, dazed by the idea, Clint kissed him, deep and dirty, sharing the flavor with him.

"Oh." More exhale than word. "That's …" His eyes floated over Clint's shoulder, and he stopped talking. Clint turned; hanging a good three feet above the tub, the bathwater was expanding. The drops that came too close to the fire turned to a steamy mist and floated higher. "Fuck," Philip said.

"It's okay; you can take care of this." Clint twined their hands together and envisioned the chord hanging in the air before them. The water coalesced back into a smaller cloud, but drifted towards the fire; the room grew noticeably warmer with the moist air. "Clear your mind, like you're training, getting ready to spar. Then move it back over the tub."

"I don't know how. That's the problem; I can't control it. Never have been able to." Philip was almost vibrating now with unease and doubt. Clint squeezed his hand and reached for the other.

"Together then. Close the circle, take what you need."

Nodding, Philip closed his eyes and tugged until Clint was leaning alongside him; ever so slowly the mass of liquid lowered and centered until it was only a foot above the tub and Philip was sweating from the intensity of his focus. The chord started to fade and Clint saw black spots on the edge of his vision, but he held on.

Voices in the hallway shattered the quiet; the water crashed down into the metal tub, some splashing on the stones around. Philip wavered, and Clint caught him, barely upright himself. Even their combined power wasn't enough to stop the crash from coming this time. Depositing Philip on the edge of his side of the bed, Clint managed to weave his way to his own side, flopping down on his back and heaving a sigh as his eyelids closed.

"Pants." Philip was telling him something, and Clint forced himself to take the bottoms and get them on. A door opened and closed, a weight sank down next to him before an arm snaked over his chest and reeled him into Philip's side. Then, he let darkness of sleep claim him.

_The faint sound of music drew him onward, through the ruined rooms filled with broken furniture: moth eaten mattress, tumbled shelves with moldy books, and an upturned battered bathtub. He couldn't find his way out of his mother's room, walls spinning and becoming the Mill and then the street where he'd met Natasha, all of them abandoned and decaying. Theodore, William, and Nathan darted around him and down into the mouth of a cave with glowing green walls. Barreling through the opening, he was in the town square, dancers twirling to the music, loud laughter and excited voices. Philip retreated through the crowd; Clint tried to catch up, but men with glowing blue eyes formed a wall that he couldn't breach. Struggling, he forced them to part and ran after Philip, grabbing his arm and swinging him around. Blue eyes in a startling pale face with hair as dark as night looked at him. _

_He hid, huddled under his father's desk, shaking with the old childish fear that he'd be found; the sounds of the bully's taunts echoed in his ears as he crawled out and tried to find the door, but there were overturned chairs and haphazard piles of books in his way. Overgrown bushes and tangled weeds choked the path in his mother's garden, scratching his bare arms as he struggled through, looking for the exit. Behind him, his grandfather's voice found him. "Go away," he commanded, and Philip ran, stumbling past the cave entrance, hearing the music in the square, catching a glimpse of blonde hair in front of him. Men with glowing blue eyes blocked his way, and he laid his hands on their chests, releasing his power with a sharp crack and smell of burnt flesh. He grabbed Clint's arm and swung him around. Blue eyes in a startling pale face with hair as dark as night looked at him. _

"Ah, there you are."


	8. Marking Territory

"I can't believe you talked me into this."

That phrase seemed to be a mantra around Barton Manor in the last few weeks, Philip thought. So many changes happening, some obvious, some not. He'd said the exact thing to Clint about creating a workshop on the outskirts of the Manor's grounds, a place to study and practice without being noticed. Uncomfortable with the word magic, Philip was even more skittish about trying to actively use his skill. He and Clint had a number of discussions, a few with raised voices that bordered upon arguments, and Philip still wasn't sold on the idea. Clint didn't seem to understand the potential for damage Philip was capable of. But he'd moved an old anvil along with heavy wooden tables into the hastily repaired rectangular cottage and even unpacked his books for the new shelves Clint had installed. A few times, if for nothing else, he bled off the extra charges that built so quickly after he and Clint were together.

"It's traditional for the Lord of the Manor to participate in the exhibition before the Faire." Philip kept his tone even despite having had the same conversation twice a day for the last week. Clint didn't like being the center of attention; he could lead a force into battle without blinking an eye, but ask him to speak in front of a crowd of townsfolk, and he turned white at the mere idea.

"I feel like a traveling performer or trained bear." He turned, straightening his practice vest as he stood in the shadow of the new guard house. The walls were raised last week and the roof beams went up with the help of the townsfolk who came out for the afternoon. Not only had they gotten most of the building framed in and ready to be completed, but an amazing amount of food had appeared – beef stew in brown bread bowls and some fried apple concoction wrapped in the thinnest, crispiest dough Philip had ever eaten. What started as a working day ended with a party atmosphere when Clint ordered a barrel of hard cider opened; Philip had to admit that a slightly drunk Bruce Banner was very entertaining while Mayor Garrett asked even more annoying questions after a full mug.

Still, weatherproofing was almost finished, and the guards were moving in as fast as new furniture appeared from busy carpenter's shops. Shaped like an L with the longer wing facing the practice grounds, the central tower held Carol's quarters on the second floor. She'd insisted on being housed with the rest of the troop, and Clint had agreed; her only concession was a private bathing room off her bedroom so she didn't have to use the shared rooms in each wing.

Philip was looking forward to the extra space in the Manor. He'd set a team to repurposing the now empty stables to create a series of warm rooms for the grooms and better stalls for the horses. That would leave Natasha and Jessica in the Hall, open up space for Annamarie's family, and give them a guest room or two plus plenty of space for the servants. Dax opted to stay in his small room off the kitchen, and the three boys got a little room on the second floor right by the chimney with bunk beds to share. There was a moment of awkwardness when Garrett asked about the Lords' suite, assuming Philip and Clint would move up to the newly opened portion of the second floor and into separate beds. After all, it was rare for married nobility to share a room, much less sleeping together every night. Clint, thankfully, had glossed right over that, neither answering nor confirming their intimacy which was what Garrett was fishing for.

Of all the changes in Philip's life in the last month, the reality of his marital bed was the most unexpected. He couldn't even use the term bed; Clint believed in sex in every location, position, and time of day, and Philip never turned him down. Even when they were angry with each other – and that happened, short words and disappointed glances – Philip's desire didn't lessen any. In fact, sometimes his ire fueled the need like tossing a dry log on a sputtering fire. They spent their nights wrapped around each other, getting used to such close proximity that Philip found it hard to sleep alone when Clint was gone with a search team or off on hold business. He missed the way Clint snaked his arms around him and buried his head in the crook of Philip's neck, the comforting weight of Clint's body anchoring his own. Occasionally, in the dark of the night, he'd wonder if he shouldn't be scared of this bone deep lust that overwhelmed him, but then Clint would sigh in his sleep and hook an ankle over Philip's to drag him closer, and the thought would fly out of his head.

The gathered crowd cheered as Carol stepped off the field, Jessica and Rodriguez behind her. There'd been little time for Philip to organize a tournament of any size, so he'd opted for an exhibition on opening day and contests for the second. Awards would be given on the third and final day. The signups had gone well, quite a number of new guards and locals coming to try their mettle against company members in diverse areas like swordplay, archery, and tilting. Carol had suggested wrestling, and Clint added the pole toss where entrants hefted hewn logs and tried to throw them. A tradition, Clint had said, from his grandfather's time; over 20 men and two women had entered their names on the lists for that feat of strength.

"I didn't realize how limber Jessica is," Philip said, changing the subject to distract Clint. "With Rodriguez using her staff and Carol's sword, I'm surprised at how quick Jessica reacted. Running up the wall to escape? Amazing."

"Jess's training was unconventional," Clint said; despite their closeness in bed, Clint remained close mouthed about the three women he'd chosen as thanes. Their stories to tell, he'd said. "They were good, weren't they?"

"You're going to be good too." Philip assured him. "I can't believe you're going to ride Lucky without a saddle."

"Shooting bareback is easy." Clint leaned in. "Sex in the saddle? Now that's a little tricky, but it's worth the trouble if you want to try."

And just like that, the heat flared between them. Philip wanted to run his hands along those bare biceps just to see what Clint would do. "That's impossible," he declared because he absolutely couldn't picture the logistics.

"Oh, I'll show you if you like. Takes some planning, but the rocking motion more than makes up for it," Clint was virtually whispering as the groom walked his horse up to the ready line and others set up the field. With a sexy grin, he left Philip sputtering and turned to the three troop members that were joining him in the archery display for last minute instructions. Rather than pick them himself, Clint had let all those interested show their skills and be voted on by the others.

"A good beginning to the Faire," Bruce Banner said as he stepped up beside Philip. "The crowd's getting bigger."

"Don't let Clint hear you say that," Philip dropped his tone to avoid being overheard as he tried to hide his arousal. A weight settled into the back of Philip's neck, the tendons tightening and a tingle of awareness at the base of his skull. An ache started behind his left eye and energy built quickly in his fingertips. "I take it you're all moved into your new room?"

"And having a good night sleep without worrying about someone joining me in the middle of the night." Bruce had been more than happy to leave the Mayor's house for a place in the Manor. Philip had worried Garrett's meddling was going to make Bruce leave before they'd managed to get him to agree to a permanent relocation. Sending a daughter to Bruce's bed was something Garrett might try.

Philip rolled his shoulders, a sense of unease pressing down on his chest. "Garrett pushing daughter one or two? Not three? She's only fifteen!"

"He's got plans for the eldest two – a McCarter nephew and a Frasier cousin." Bruce shook his head. "Marybeth is sweet and amiable, but she's not my type."

"Banner, enjoying the afternoon?" Clint's voice was strained; Philip's head ached, a flash of pain in his temple.

"Very much so." Bruce's reply was calmly and easy. "As I was telling Philip, I'm very happy to be in the manor. Seems I have no desire to end up forcibly tied to one of Garrett's daughters. Not that I don't appreciate a lovely young woman, but I'm married to my studies."

The rigid band released and Philip felt a flood of relief as the pain receded. "I didn't realize your order took vows."

"Oh, I see," Clint said at the same moment. They laughed at talking over each other. "Not sleeping with one eye open anymore, eh?" He winked at the clerk before turning his attention to his husband. "Going to give me a token to wear, Phil?"

The thought of handing over a ribbon for Clint made Philip's smile. "Sorry, I don't have any fripperies to share."

"You could mark me." The whispered threaded into Philip's ear, and he bit his lower lip to keep himself on an even keel. "Phil," Clint said, drawing the name out and tugging with his voice until Philip's hand moved of its own accord towards Clint's arm.

He intended to give the muscle a quick squeeze, just the slightest touch; the flash of purple energy crackled and Philip jerked back, eyes wide as Clint flinched away. There, bright red like a brand, was the imprint of his hand on Clint's skin. He couldn't think, didn't move during the time it took him to comprehend what he'd done, then he schooled his face with an impassive mask to hide behind as Clint ducked his shoulder, covered the area with his hand and turned away from prying eyes. A quick glance told Philip no one was looking their way from the crowd or the men in a tight group, waiting on Clint. Exactly what Bruce was thinking, Philip couldn't tell without directly looking at the clerk.

"Clint," Carol called. "You ready?"

There was nothing to do but brazen through it; with a look, they both agreed, and Clint slowly dropped his hand. The mark was fading as quickly as it came, just a shadow now. Philip breathed a silent sigh of relief as Clint stepped away. Thank the gods for small favors it wasn't worse; Philip had been far too busy today to go to the workshop and bled away energy. Maybe Clint was right about Philip needing to practice just like he did with his swordplay.

"If there were ever any reason you might need help," Bruce said quietly, almost drowned out by the roar from the makeshift viewing stands as Clint and the men entered the field. "You just have to ask. I've never told you my field of study, you realize." Philip could only stare at those earnest brown eyes. "You're a smart man. You, Clint, Carol, Natasha, Jessica, and me? All ending up here together? Surely you don't believe that's a coincidence?"

"No. No, I don't." The import of what Bruce was admitting hit Philip. "You're more than you seem, Bruce Banner. Like me."

"Not exactly, but in the same genus, you could say. I'm a scholar who got in over his head; there are powers that don't take kindly to being tampered with." The darkness was back in Bruce's eyes. "That's why marriage isn't on the table for me. I can't imagine a woman who would be able to deal with my … differences. But I can help you get this under control. We're going to need you, I fear. Sooner rather than later."

The exhibition started and there was no more time for revelations; Philip was rocked enough by what he'd just learned that he barely noticed the three men run through their paces, shooting as they rolled and rode, eliciting gasps and applause from the crowd. But he knew the second Clint took the field on his sorrel rouncey, the two of them moving in unison like they were connected in both mind and body. They made every motion effortless, quick turns, fast gallops, slow trots, arrows hitting the targets Clint never bothered to center in his sights. Then Clint stood up, balanced on the swaying tightrope of Lucky's back, aim never wavering, dismounting with a back flip, his knees tight to his chest, and firing the last two arrows from the ground.

The noise from the crowd crested like a wave and Philip felt like he was drowning, caught between the sound washing over him and the energy that slammed out of his chest, making it hard to breath. The brief thought of Clint's earlier promise about riding together was all it took to make Philip lose himself in the onslaught, power coursing down his arms into his clenched palms.

"Put your hands on your swords," Bruce insisted.

The metal hilts were cool to his touch and he curled his fingers around them clinging to their comforting feel as he let the energy run down the fuller and pool at the tip.

"Think of fighting well, of quickness and sharpness. Center your mind on the feel of the sword in your hand, when the balance is perfect."

That image anchored him; the swish of the blade through the air, the ring of metal on metal. The power faded and let him weak in the knees, but the hilts were warm now under his fingers. A hand on his arm guided him to a wooden bench by the weapon display, and he sat down.

"The fatigue will pass especially after Clint gets here." Bruce put some space between them. "First thing we need to do is find a focal point for you. I have some stones that might work if we can get Luke to embed them in the pommels. If we're lucky, one will resonate with you and maybe even be able to store the energy."

"You really do know about this." Philip shouldn't be surprised; why wouldn't others notice the same clues he had?

"The right place at the right time. That's how it always starts in the stories, as you well know." Bruce carefully kept his hands to himself. "Here's Clint now. Best if he's the one to help you. You're responsive to each other and I don't want to make him any more jealous than he already is. Do assure him that I like women, though."

"Phil?" Clint paused in front of them, unsure of what exactly to do.

"You were perfect," Philip said, offering Clint his hand. Just the slide of palms together strengthened Philip, and he pulled up using Clint's weight to aid him. The hand print on Clint's arm flared briefly; Philip put his other palm over it, masking it with a casual touch. "I guess you can do anything on horseback. But I may need a demonstration later."

"That I can do," Clint answered, eyes lightening as Philip gained back his equilibrium. "That I will definitely do."

Dax had set the three boys to cleaning out the old fire pits a week ago; they'd enjoyed it far too much, black sandy ash and dirt covering their faces and any exposed skin when they were done. Theodore's blonde hair had dark streaks and Nathan discovered how easy it was to add a little water to make a sticky paste that clung to everything and painted walls. The howling had echoed as far as the practice fields as Annamarie forced them to scrub with hard bristle brushes in the cold water of the pond. Now, pigs were roasting in the Indian summer warmth that had invaded the holding, a last hurrah before the sting of winter winds blew down from the North. A sauce was thickening in the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg mixed with vinegar and rum, as Rachel pulled yeasty rolls from the stone arch of the oven. Philip didn't intrude, even though his stomach rumbled as he stuck his head in the door, reminding him he'd only had time to eat a few bites of cheese since his very early breakfast. Too much to do; he could eat when supper was served. Then he'd be done for the day aside from a stroll down to hear the evening's entertainment. The players had arrived, but their repertoire hadn't been announced. Clint had asked for something fun and light, no tragedies, and Philip had requested some adventure and maybe romance. The Headsman had just smiled and said he had a perfect choice.

"Phil!" With a clatter, William came running through the door from the Main Hall, dodging between servants with platters, almost crashing into a young woman balancing a bucket filled with sweet potatoes, roasted in the coals, ready to eat. He was shouting, forgetting his manners in his haste. Wincing, Philip caught him by the scruff of his collar and brought him to a halt. "There's a woman. She's in armor and really tall and all scary muscles with a big sword. Talks funny. She was down at the field watching; now she's here."

"Slow down," Philip cautioned. The boy was talking so fast, he was tripping over his words. "Now, what's her name?"

"Lady Six or Shift or something like that, I think." William's eyes were wide. "She's from Asgard."

Gods. Lady Sif was here. Philip's blood ran cold at what her presence meant. She was Prince Loki's Head of Guard; if she had arrived, Loki would not be far behind. They'd been expecting the visit, and yet Philip wasn't ready.

"William. Listen to me. This is very important. Go get Lord Barton; he's still down on the field with Thane Danvers and Thane Drew. Tell him Lady Sif from Asgard is here. Got that?" When William just stood there, Philip gave him a push on his back to start him down the hallway. "Pages of noble households do not run willy nilly. But hurry." The boy pelted off at a dead run despite the warning.

He wasted a moment for a deep breath and to straighten his jacket. Wishing he had time to change into more formal attire, Philip squared his shoulders, ready to face this new challenge.

"I'll bring something warm to drink," Annamarie said.

"You're a little scary, you know?" Philip could think of nothing else to say.

"Hard to miss Billy tearing through the manor house," she smiled as she shooed him away. "Go on and welcome our guest."

She was waiting in the entry hall, completely out of place amid the bustle of the servants and townsfolk setting up for the evening's festivities. They gave the woman a wide berth as she stood, hand on her broadsword, watching them come and go. Hair the color of midnight was plaited into a long braid that fell down her back, and she wore a silver breastplate over her chainmail hauberk, red leather flaps for a skirt, pauldrons covering her shoulders. Her traveling cloak was stained at the edges, the dark red hood pushed back. Stepping up to her, Philip realized she was taller than him; he had to tilt his head back to look into her amazing green eyes.

"Lady Sif, Shield-Maiden of Asgard, your reputation precedes you." He inclined his head; although his status as a Lord meant he needn't bow, the nod indicated his respect.

"Lord Coulson Barton," she inclined her head in return. "Prince Loki is not far behind me; I thought to prepare you before we descended upon your home."

Philip understood; she was here to check the lay of the land. Her primary responsibility was the Prince's safety. As a student of the Asgardian court and history, Philip had heard remarkable stories about this woman's fighting prowess. Rumor also linked Lady Sif to the famous Warriors Three, Prince Thor's companions. If King Odin had sent Loki away as punishment, Sif's presence meant that his father still worried about the Prince.

"I'm afraid we are a little short on space at the moment," Philip held his arm out, ushering Sif into the Hall proper. "We have a few rooms here in the Manor, for the Prince and you, and your men are welcome in the new guard house but they'll have to share." Like magic, Annamarie appeared with mugs of hot cider, a cinnamon stick in each. Warm rolls were piled in a basket alongside the drinks.

"Thank you," Sif spoke directly to Annamarie. The normally unshakeable chatelaine ducked her head. Whether Sif's beauty or graciousness had thrown her, Annamarie was at a loss for words as she retreated. "We appreciate your offer, but the rooms are unnecessary. The Prince travels with his own tents and prefers them when the weather permits. All we need is level ground; we are a small traveling party, just twelve."

"There's a fallow field beyond the practice grounds and near the creek that would suffice. Close to the manor and to town so you can enjoy the Faire." Philip breathed a mental sigh of relief; the idea of Loki just down the corridor was discomforting. He motioned to a seat and waited for her to settle before he sat down across from her. Taking a mug, she drained the whole thing in one long drink then took a roll.

"A harvest festival?" Sif's smile was open and inviting, nothing like Philip had expected from such an august member of the Asgardian court. From what he'd read, the nobility held to the old ways, formal language, and a faith in the divine right of the King to rule. "I do love this time of year! Your King asked us to accompany him to Lord Stark's festival which I understand is very large and well-known, but we must make for home while the weather holds. The pass through the Mountains will not be open much longer. That is why we can only stay a few days."

Better and better, Philip thought. A short visit would be more agreeable on his part. "I have never been through the pass, but I know it to be treacherous even on good days like this."

"Indeed. Bandits used to be the danger, but now I hear of far different adversaries." Her eyes glittered at the prospect. "I can only hope to run across a troll or a giant or some other creature of legends. It has been far too long since I had real sport."

"I'm sure you can handle whatever comes your way, Milady," Philip agreed. The Asgardians valued success in battle, courage and strength a requirement for the position Sif held. And yet she spoke of such monsters as if she expected them to be real. "Here you'll find that our little celebration is much smaller than Lord Stark's. The TriYork Festival is the largest of all; artisans from other countries, talented entertainers; Stark has only the best. But we can boast of excellent players from the Northern reaches and McKennitt is performing tomorrow night."

"Oh, I prefer this kind of gathering, to be honest." She smiled. "But I think you downplay the charms of your hold; I saw the end of the exhibition as I rode in. The caliber of the participants was exceptional."

"Thank you," Clint said as he stopped at the table; he was still in his working gear, sweaty hair clinging to his face. "Lady Sif. Be welcome."

"Ah, Lord Barton. The tales about you are not exaggerated, I see." She unfolded her long legs and stood to offer a return of Clint's nod. Philip stood as well. "Although I admit to a slight disappointment that I can't see the accuracy of your aim from the rigging of a ship."

Clint blushed. "Ah, well those are stories and far from the truth, I'm afraid."

"After watching you today, I have no doubt you are capable of the deeds," she teased. "But I suppose that shooting flaming arrows in a snow storm while riding a dragon might be amplified a bit."

"Dragon?" Philip couldn't help but say. "I haven't heard that one, I'm afraid." Clint shot him a look, clearly unhappy with his contribution.

"_Arrows of the Wind_, it's called. Very popular in the Asgardian court. Princess Mielikki's personal favorite," Sif offered, her praise serious.

"Ah, um," Clint hesitated, unsure how to go on. Philip took pity on him.

"Would you like to freshen up after your time on the road? Tonight's meal is informal and will begin in less than a half hour," Philip said. "I should check on the progress in the kitchen."

"Of course," Sif agreed.

"I'll show you to a guest room then." Clint was relieved at the change of subject. "I'm headed that way."

Philip watched them go, aware that Clint would soon learn of Loki's arrival. First on Philip's new to-do list was to find Natasha. She'd returned only yesterday with the search party from the Howling Vale; her friend Missouri had to be close to an object to sense it, so they planned for her to visit all the locations. How to deal with the information about the glowing eyed bandits and their goal was the issue. They'd only involved a handful of company members in the travelling parties, and they didn't know exactly what they were looking for. Still, a stray word about the attack was bound to happen. He needed Natasha's input, so he tracked her down near the stage being set on the field for the performance later.

"We're about to have company I hear," were the first words she said. Another scary woman, sometimes Natasha knew things before they happened. "I saw the Lady Sif ride in. She knows our strengths and weaknesses by now and will report them to Loki."

"She seemed refreshingly open." It was true; Philip hadn't expected it. "But yes, she saw Clint, Carol and Jessica. You and I remain the unknowns."

"Within an hour, she'll know of the bandits and the search. Best to acknowledge enough to make it seem like we've been honest." Natasha was very good at misdirection; Philip was about to suggest the very same strategy.

"We say that we found a map and are checking the areas out for more bandits. Close enough to the truth." Philip eyed the player's wagon with its open side, props and costumes spilling out. "We can keep him busy with the Faire. I'd say turn Garrett loose on Loki, but that seems too mean."

"And dangerous. I forget you haven't met Loki yet. He's a master manipulator; Garrett would be an appetizer for him. Best keep your wits about you – Clint too – and be wary of what you say," Natasha counseled. "He won't buy that you two are a love match, but I think we can sell him on mutual benefit."

"Agreed." Philip walked back towards the manor, Natasha at his side. Clearly, Philip's dowry had been an important variable; all of the construction alone proved that. "There's no hiding the state of the Hold from him. Best use it to our advantage. Fortunately, he's not staying in the manor; he has his own tents."

"You know he'll try to seduce one or both of you. That's how he operates, divide and conquer, and he's not a gracious loser from what I've heard. Clint stole you from him …" Natasha wiggled her eyebrows at him when Philip huffed at the turn of phrase, "… that's how he'll see it, so I think he'll try your resolve. If that doesn't work, he'll go for jealousy, and there he'll have more success."

"Truly? I don't think his play will work; there's no reason for either of us to be jealous." Philip dismissed the idea. After all, as Natasha had already pointed out, love was not part of the equation. His marriage was a beneficial arrangement with the added bonus of physical attraction.

"You obviously didn't see how Clint looked at Bruce earlier today. Green eyed and angry, that's what he was."

Bruce had mentioned something about not touching, but Philip hadn't really paid attention to it. "You're mistaken."

A slight bow of her head, Natasha yielded the point, not giving in, but simply dropping the subject. "I will help if I can and direct Loki's attention elsewhere. Be careful of anything that smells of magic while he's here. Even the slightest whiff and he'll take advantage of it."

"Magic?" That sounded weak even to Philip's own ears. He could protest more or just accept that his secret was no longer only his. "I don't think that's an issue."

"I'm right in saying Loki isn't even subtle about his own talents and finding that he missed marrying the first human mage in generations will not sit well with him."

Philip would have gaped at her, but they had reached the impromptu serving area, tables arranged near the now empty fire pits, platters weighed down with delicious pork pulled from the bone. His eye found Lady Sif talking with Carol, an animated conversation with hand gestures and laughter. Clint was speaking to the Mayor, his carefully schooled face giving away none of his emotions. Bruce, standing just outside the gathered group, moved their way.

"I'll go rescue Clint," Natasha announced before she headed that direction.

"Does everyone know?" Philip mused aloud to Bruce.

"Well, Clint, of course. Natasha, Carol, and Jessica. Bonds forged during troubled times make for tight friendships. I imagine Natasha already had suspicions before you arrived. She knows everything. It's almost spooky." Bruce grinned and shrugged at Philip's slack-jawed face. "I knew the moment we met; pretty surprised to find you standing in the clearing, knocking on my door. That's why I agreed to come here. Oh, Annamarie suspects. You don't clean up after people and not learn their secrets."

"We could just make a public announcement. That might be easier." Old hurts flared and Philip's fears came back full force. The more people aware of him, the more he worried.

"They want to protect Clint. That's their job," Bruce reminded him. Philip did understand that. Just a short while ago, that had been his role for Lord Fury. How quickly Philip had changed his thinking. Now he wished he was in the tight circle of Clint's family, not the interloper they were afraid of.

"Yes. And they do it well." He hid the little ache of disappointment. There was work to do. There was always work. "I'd best see if Dax is ready; hungry people don't like to wait long." Feeling Bruce's eyes on him as he walked away, Philip didn't have the luxury of letting himself fall into those old doubts. Lady Sif had said Loki would be arriving within the hour, and Philip still had to speak to Annamarie about all the arrangements. When Dax gave the go ahead, Philip tapped Clint's shoulder.

Standing up on a bench, Clint called to the growing crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen! We welcome you to the Frasierton Fall Faire! Eat, drink, dance, and spend your money at the stalls in the marketplace. May the weather hold both now and for your journeys home. As Lord of the Manor, I declare this Faire begun!"

Applause greeted the pronouncement along with a surge of people towards the food tables. Holding out his hand to Philip, Clint jumped down; when Philip would have pulled away, Clint tightened his grip, refusing to let go.

"Oh no, you don't. United front, remember?" Clint said.

The touch grounded Philip, tugging him back from his thoughts and into the present. Clint was right; so many of the Holders were here – Frasier, Ferguson, Huskey, Thomas, and a whole passel of McCarters – and this was the first time Philip had met most of them. The lovely temperatures allowed them to set up trestles and benches outside under the spreading shade of an old oak, its gnarled limbs creating seats of their own with dips and curves. The leaves were a brilliant orange now, some already littering the ground, creating a carpet of color for the festival clothing they were all wearing. Philip had talked Clint into wearing his new vest, the black leather fitted to his form in ways that gave Philip all sorts of ideas, dark sleeves of his black shirt highlighting the purple trim. In return, Philip had worn his new jacket and they looked a fine matching pair. The Frasiers wore their plaids as sashes over their vests, brilliant red with black stripes. Not to be outdone, the Huskeys had donned their kilts, bare knees and hairy legs revealed as they sat down with plates heaping with food. The McCarters had gone the opposite direction and came in their homespun shirts and worn leather fighting vests, a statement of how comfortable they were with their position. Laird Richard had weaseled a barrel of ale out of Annamarie early – she was a cousin after all – and the whole family was well on the way to being raucously drunk, even the lovely Melinda, who'd only gotten more radiant as she'd gained weight after each child. Giving her husband seven strapping sons and four strong girls built just like her made her a goddess in his eyes. She wore a dress made of the most vibrant ochre yellow Philip had ever seen, the fabric Sam had brought her from the Capital; it clashed horribly with the autumn leaves, accentuated the curves of her ample hips, and yet she glowed as her family danced attendance on her. When she asked for the recipe for the mini-apple tarts, Clint laughed and sent for Rachel; within minutes, the two women's heads were tilted close, whispering over full mugs.

He should have been enjoying it all, the tall tales exchanged, the wide smile on Dax's face as person after person complimented him, the ease with which Clint moved among his people, and the way Lady Sif took it all in as she sat with Carol and Jessica, drinking and eating as much as the largest man at the table. Success after all the planning usually made Philip happy; a smoothly running household was a thing of beauty. And yet, he couldn't forget who was drawing nearer with every moment, a sense of foreboding settling in his chest. After they took their own places – no head table here, a specific request of Clint's – Philip's mind started to wander as he ate his jerked pork, following Clint's lead and splitting the roll to pile the spicy, fragrant meat inside. Even the cinnamon butter on the sweet potato couldn't keep his attention or his own tart which matched perfectly to the rest of the meal. Instead, he pictured the road leading up to town, remembering the way it curved around a hillock, Barton Manor coming into view, framed by the mountains as a backdrop. Before that was a woody section which would be painted with the colors of the season; he imagined the horses' hooves tamping down the fallen leaves. In the denser parts, the trees formed a canopy over the riders, all eleven of them on their steeds, pace steadily advancing, bringing them closer. At the head was a solid black palfrey, delicate legs of a purebred, her neck arched, head held high, speed promised in her frame, agility written on her shining coat. Astride was a man used to commanding attention, royalty in his frame, his shoulders back, spine straight, black hair slick and gleaming in the stray beams of the setting autumn sun. Blue eyes like the ice of a Northern ridge, brilliant, intense, looking right into Philip's heart, cutting into his very soul …

"Philip?"

Warm hand on his thigh, Clint's voice yanked him back. Philip dragged in a breath, realized he was shaking, goose bumps running up his arms. Someone was pressing a hot mug into his hand; he held it under his nose, a curl of condensed mist chasing away the chill.

"Sorry. I must have drifted off for a moment. It's been a busy few weeks," he said as soon as he could make his mouth work. The thread of hot cider ran down his throat as he sipped.

"You need to get more rest," Laird James Frasier declared from across the table. "Can't have you falling asleep over food this good, boy! Clint, you need to take better care of your husband." He called everyone 'boy'; the man was approaching sixty and quite a character in his own right.

"From what I hear that's not a problem!" Richard McCarter shouted from his table. A roar greeted his words, then thumping of the tables, mugs smashing down on the wood in a beat that grew louder and louder.

"Kiss him!" Not to be outdone, Leo Huskey joined in. "We missed the wedding feast. Let's have one now!" The others shouted their approval and Philip noticed that Sif was pounding her mug with the others.

"Well?" Clint asked him. Philip nodded in agreement, leaning in, expecting a light peck on the lips to placate the crowd.

"Melinda can't see ya'!" McCarter shouted. "Stand up!"

"Table! On the table!" They all took up the chant.

There was nothing to do but stand up; Clint stepped upon the bench as people cleared a spot on the table. Then he offered his hand in a broad gesture that amused Philip; like actors on stage, Philip climbed up and bowed to Clint to cover the awkwardness. Thank the gods, he thought, that Clint took the lead; capturing Philip's hand in his, Clint wrapped the other one around the side of Philip's head, resting his thumb along Philip's jaw and burying his fingers into Philip's hair. That self-satisfied smirk was on Clint's face, the one he made when he was about to play with Philip's equilibrium; Philip only had a moment to wonder what Clint was up to before their lips came together in a kiss that was definitely not for public consumption. The tip of Clint's tongue slipped inside and ran the curve of Phil's teeth before stroking further inside. Holding him still with his hand, Clint explored every crevice of his mouth, demanding Philip reply in kind despite the howls of approval that surrounded them.

Growing warm, then hotter, then burning along the skin, Clint's fingers gripped Philip as power flowed between them. Not a flash like before, this was surer, a sharing that was welcome on both sides. Philip could feel the branding happening, knew Clint was marking him in front of everyone. Rather than letting the energy go unchecked, Philip turned it back into Clint, wrapping his free hand around the exact spot he'd burned Clint earlier. He remembered and let the images play behind his closed eyelids – the cocky grin, the way Clint looked on horseback, the flex of muscle when he drew his bow, the sprawl of his limbs as he lay sated in bed – and heard the words in his mind, "unchanging to the very end of time." And somewhere he heard an answering echo: "mine."

The people's reaction was deafening when they broke apart, but neither of them turned away, eyes mirroring this new development. Hands helped them down, and they were caught up in the current of well-wishers, a series of handshakes and back slaps as more ale was poured for everyone, unable to even speak to each other before they were separated in the crowd. Philip found himself in front of the Lady Sif who quirked her lips up in an amused smile and gave him a bear sized hug.

"You have no idea," she said, smile widening. "And he doesn't know. Oh, this is going to be so much fun."

"What do you mean?" Philip managed to ask as other hands tried to pull him away.

"Lord Philip! Lord Philip!" Theodore was on one side, William on the other, yanking on his coat. They were dressed in their new livery and William already had sauce on the collar of his shirt.

"Gentlemen." The one word was enough to get them to stop jumping up and down and shouting. "That's better. Now, go ahead."

"He's here, he's here," Theodore said.

"Lord … Prince Loki, milord. He's arrived," William said.


	9. Shadows of Doubt

Prince Loki appeared to be the court dilettante that Natasha had warned him about; he was dressed in leather armor tailored to look like dress finery, embroidered with gold thread and jeweled clasps that would be out-of-place on any field of battle Clint had ever known. And yet, the man was charming and quite interested in the Hold; from the moment his slim leather boot had touched the ground as he slid off his horse, he'd been nothing but gracious, apologizing for his unexpected arrival and expressing his thanks for the food and drink Philip had arranged for the Prince and his retinue. Now, sitting at a table under the oak tree, he was laughing at something Richard McCarter was saying.

Maybe it was the strange events of the day that had Clint feeling so off kilter. If he stopped to think about it, he could feel the mark Philip had made tingle on his arm, and he remembered clearly the sensation of his own hand burning into Philip's skin. All of that on top of the Faire, the exhibition, Lady Sif, and the spike of pure hatred Clint had felt when he thought Bruce was propositioning Philip. Clint liked the clerk; he had a wry sense of humor and was taking the weirdness in stride. But, for a moment, Clint had the impulse to punch the man in the face. Once he'd realized Bruce was only talking about Garrett's attempts at matchmaking, Clint had swung right back into the state of semi-arousal he was always in when Philip was nearby.

His eyes unerringly found his husband talking to Dax, probably praising him for the food. Philip was good at that, knowing when to speak a good word and when someone needed a kick to get going. Look at Rachel. A month ago, she was a camp follower with the goal of surviving life long enough to maybe marry one of the men. Now, she was seated next to a Laird's wife as she told a noble of the Asgardian court her plans to perfect her pie crust and open her own shop. Melinda, it seemed, had agreed to help fund the endeavor and Sif, after finishing a third tart, suggested Rachel visit Asgard to teach her recipes to the royal chefs. Philip had pushed her to take a job in the manor, and now she was starting to believe she could do more. It didn't escape Clint that Philip was doing the same thing to him; getting Clint to take part in today's exhibition hadn't been a subtle thing. Still, Clint recognized the ways Philip was making him take responsibility and building him up to believe he could actually do this, be the Lord of the Manor his father never was.

In the moments of doubt that assailed Clint, usually in the middle of the night or during long, boring jobs like building walls, he wondered why he'd trusted Philip so quickly and easily. The man had slotted into Clint's life as if he'd been destined to be by Clint's side. Usually, Clint would question that, worry about scoundrels and con men who wanted his money, his power or his life. He'd known Natasha for six months before he let himself go to sleep in her presence; Carol was almost a year, and Jessica had only agreed to become his thane after he almost got killed rescuing her. But Philip had become something of an obsession for Clint in the blink of an eye; he thought of things at the oddest times during the day, like the goofy smile Philip made when he was talking about an old story, the way Phil's leather pants fit snugly across the curve of his ass, and the flash of sunlight off Philip's swords as he fought. At night, Clint curled around the lean frame and didn't dream of blood and battle. And when Clint was inside of Philip, he didn't think of anything at all, pleasure and contentment overwhelming all his doubts and fears. Sex with Philip was good. Very good.

"I'd ask if you were wool-gathering, Lord Barton, but I suspect you are contemplating something earthier," Loki said. His melodic voice, rich and deep, drew Clint back from his ruminations. With an arched eyebrow, Loki followed Clint's line of sight straight to Philip.

"The lad's still a newlywed." Richard McCarter's voice boomed across the space. Philip turned and his gaze landed on Clint. "He's distracted as any new husband should be. Haven't even made it to the new moon yet!"

"'Tis good to see an arranged marriage working well," the Prince said. "Although I find myself regretting the lateness of my suit. Had I known Lord Philip, I might have put up more of a fight for him."

"Begging your pardon, your Highness," Melinda McCarter said in her quieter voice. "But we're very glad we have both of our Lords. After the attack two years ago, we were in an awful state and couldn't very well help ourselves."

"Now, woman, you know we'd have been able to get things pulled back together," her husband protested. "McCarters take care of themselves."

"Aye, love, I know you would. But this was the whole Holding not just our part. And you agreed with the others to ask Lord Fury for protection and aid, so don't be puffing up your chest at me." Melinda may have smiled at Loki, but she sent a glare full of sharp daggers at Richard. "Without Clint's return and Philip's arrival, I know we wouldn't be sitting here, eating such good food and celebrating. Fury did right by us."

"As he should," Loki agreed. "That is the way of marriages; make the best alliances and strengthen the land."

"That may be true, but it does my heart good to see Clint all besotted like he is. About time you had a good break, my boy," Melinda added, aiming her last comment at him. Clint knew he was blushing right up to the roots of his hair. Besotted? Where did she get that idea?

"I thank you for the kind words." Clint wanted to object, but thought better of it. What would it hurt for Loki to think there was more between him and Philip? "But you are the reason this Hold is thriving. The people here are strong-willed."

"See?" Richard laughed. "You're definitely a Frasier, boy. Far too nice for your own good. McCarters, on the other hand, know when to speak our mind and take credit for the good we've done."

"I'd say Lord Barton has the right of it," Loki laughed, his blue eyes filled with humor. "Were she free, Lady McCarter would make a wonderful Princess of Asgard. My mother would adore you."

The Laird of the clan McCarter sputtered and his face grew red.

"Now that is the best compliment anyone's given me in ages!" Melinda overrode whatever her husband was about to say. "You could learn from the Prince, dear." She stood, brushed the wrinkles from her dress, and held her hand out to Richard. "Time for the play. You know I want a good seat."

"Interesting Holders you have, Lord Barton," Loki said after they had left. "They seem very loyal."

For a moment, it was just Clint and Loki, and Clint felt the oddest discomfort, like a cold breeze on the back of his neck. "The McCarters have been on this land as long as my family."

"Yes, history is an excellent way to judge a person, is it not?" Loki sipped his ale. "Take Lady Sif. I've known her since we were both children. Even when she's angry with me, I know I can trust her to watch my back."

"She is a formidable woman," Clint agreed. He wasn't good at word play or parsing phrases; he needed Natasha for that, but she'd been absent since Loki had ridden up the road.

"So, too, are your Thanes, I hear. One of the oddities of the Midlands to us is the reliance upon outdated notions like the frailty of women when they are so obviously the stronger sex." Loki's eyes found Sif where she sat with Carol and Jessica. "And yet your people accept your choice of husband without comment."

"It doesn't make sense, I give you that," Clint acknowledged. "But that's human nature. We hold contradictory ideas." That summed up how Clint felt about Philip, he realized. He wanted him desperately but still didn't know him.

"I assume you wish to view the evening's entertainment," Sif interrupted, speaking to Loki. Carol and Jessica were standing with her. "It appears they are waiting on us to begin."

"Thane Danvers, would you be so kind?" Loki stood and held out his arm. Clint hid his surprise, half expecting Loki to ask him. Only because he was looking directly at her did he notice the way Sif's face changed briefly, emotion there and then gone. He recognized that look; he'd directed his own jealous glare at Philip earlier today. Loki winked at Clint; gods, but the man knew and was playing with her.

"I'd be honored." Carol slipped her arm through Loki's. She had on her battle face, the gaze that had scared any number of men off the field before the fight had begun, so the smile she plastered on didn't reach her eyes. Pre-disposed to dislike Loki, Carol was using her head of the guard status as a reason to be wary of him.

"Please tell Philip that I hope to have time to speak to him tomorrow. I would convey my congratulations … assuming he is free, of course." Loki tilted his head in Philip's direction and Clint's eyes flicked that way.

Standing in the growing shadows of the oak, half-hidden from view, Philip was leaning on the branch, listening with rapt attention. Bruce's hand was on Philip's forearm, his brown hair falling across his face as he finished speaking. Philip laughed, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Like a knife's plunge, Clint felt the stab of jealousy at the base of his throat, his stomach turning over. The note he heard was not just a minor key, but a discordant jangle that set his teeth on edge. From the corner of his eye, he caught Loki's stare, poised and ready to pounce on any response. But Clint was a master at masking his feelings when he wanted to be. A skill born of years of practice, hiding behind a staid face was a necessity Clint had learned at an early age. If he didn't cry or beg, his father lost interest sooner, moving on to someone who would be suitably cowed by his belligerent threats. Hope was just as bad as fear; kind words and faint praise from his father was only meant to make the fall worse. The more Clint believed the soft voice, the worse the harsh hand would fall. So he'd developed a mask that revealed nothing, and it had served him well in his mercenary years. Opponents couldn't guess his plans, friends didn't know his hurts, and no one saw his vulnerability but the few he trusted.

"I will make certain you speak with Philip tomorrow. He'll wish to make time for you, I'm sure." His tone made Carol stand straighter, the fighter in her recognizing the threat that lurked in the air. Jessica, standing behind Loki and out of his sight, cut her gaze to Philip and back to Clint with an almost imperceptible nod. "Carol, if you would, tell the performers that Philip and I will there shortly."

"Of course," Carol agreed. Loki's eye's narrowed ever so slightly, stymied by Clint's implacable outward calm. "Shall we, your Highness?"

The Prince had little choice but to go with her; the first salvo had not achieved the desired outcome, and Clint knew there would be another more subtle feint. Shoving down the desire to curl his hands into fists and slam one into Bruce's face, Clint waited until Loki was out of earshot, disappearing down the slope of the hill.

"He wants a reaction, you understand." Sif's words startled him. "It's his way. He dissects everything until he sees how it works. Have care; he'll lay your secrets bare before he leaves."

"You would warn me, Milady?" Clint wasn't sure of her motives; she was of Asgard and a defender of the Prince.

"Consider this advice, Lord Barton. Loki will recognize what you have, whether you do or not. When Lord Philip was an abstraction, a potential mate in name only, the Prince was interested only for what the marriage could bring. Now that he has met you both?" Sif's question was almost wistful. "He'll want to know how he can have it too"

"If he's after Philip, he'll have a fight on his hands." What Clint had felt when he'd seen Bruce and Philip together paled in comparison to the fire that flared at her suggestion. Loki would not sway Philip away from Clint. "Prince or no, he can't have him."

"Ah, and there's the rub. Anyone who spends the least amount of time around you will know that truth. Even I am jealous." She placed a hand on Clint's shoulder, carefully telegraphing her move as she did. "Do not let anything admit impediments to your bond."

With that, she left Clint alone, his mind whirling with the details of the conversation, and his body tense with the fast shift of emotions he was feeling. She hadn't said outright that Loki was going to take Philip; she'd said he would want to know how he could have someone like Philip too. Could she mean the Prince would be jealous as well? Or was she hinting at the magic? That scared Clint the most; what if the Asgardians knew. What would they do?

"Clint? What did Sif say?" Philip's hand radiated warmth from its touch. Standing just behind Philip, Bruce took a step back as he made eye contact with Clint; the melody in Clint's head was still slightly off, wrong notes falling among the stronger chords.

"Loki tried to make me jealous, just like Natasha predicted." The words were difficult to get out, but once they were spoken aloud, Clint was relieved. The chords resolved, drifting back into the comfortingly familiar song he connected with Phil.

"If I'm causing any difficulties, I'll gladly return to my own studies," Bruce offered. His shoulders hunched, and he tried to make himself smaller.

"No," Philip insisted. "Clint, we need Bruce. That's what we've been talking about; he can help me learn to control this … power."

"Oh." Clint saw the scenes with a different eye – the way the two men shared a love of learning, the amount of knowledge they'd read about magic, even Bruce with Philip earlier after the exhibition, guiding him to a seat and waiting on Clint. "Oh."

"I might be able to help you as well, at least insofar as the two of you working together. I have some ideas, if I can find the right references again, that can stabilize the connection." When he spoke this time, Bruce stood up straight, more confident in himself. "Like now, you're probably feeling something off, an ache or itch or upset. Out of sync for a lack of a better word."

"Like the hairs on the back of head are standing out," Philip said, surprising Clint with how open he was being.

Another moment of decision, Clint realized. Did he trust Bruce? Loki had been right about that; trust was something earned over a long history together. He barely knew Philip much less this clerk. And yet … "A wrong note, the chords all jangled up."

"Music? You hear music?" Bruce's eyes widened. "That's very rare. I can only think of one example in all the legends. What was his name? It will come to me, give me a moment."

"Bruce, the players are waiting," Philip gently reminded.

"Yes, of course. My apologies." Bruce pulled himself back to the moment. "Touch helps, does it not? Like this." He reached for Philip's other hand and guided it to Clint's hand.

For just a second, their three hands were in contact. Music exploded into Clint's head, loud and strong, his and Philip's song with a bass counter melody that expanded and supported the main theme. Philip gasped, the charge of his magic flowing up Clint's arm and into his chest, purple sparks jumping between their fingers to mix with the green streaks that appeared on Bruce's hand. Not the sickly green of their dreams, Bruce's skin was the color of emeralds, bold and deep. With a startled exclamation, Bruce jerked away; his whole body shivering.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, head down, curled in on himself. "I didn't predict this reaction." He started to flee but Clint grabbed his arm; the flesh was shifting under Clint's hand, muscles straining and tensing. With a quick twist, Bruce broke the hold.

"Are you ill? What do you need?" Philip asked. "Let us help you."

"I need … time … I will … be well … in the … morning … just leave me be. I need to … expend this energy. You understand." He disappeared into the darkness of the oncoming evening, running away from the festivities.

"We should do something," Clint said, starting after the clerk. They were the cause of his distress; their magics had somehow infected the other man.

"I think we should let him alone. He has much to tell us yet; earlier, I was reminded he prefers to live a solitary life. There must be a reason for it." Philip counseled. Still, doing nothing didn't sit well with Clint, even if it was the right thing. "We need to go before we raise suspicions."

"Melinda will assume we're busy with something more pleasant," Clint told him. "The holders believe we are on our honeymoon."

"That kiss didn't do anything to disabuse them of the notion." Philip's face grew softer as he remembered.

"Indeed." Clint started towards the field, absently tugging on Philip's hand, keeping their fingers entwined. It was becoming a habit, this constant contact; the feel of skin on skin buoyed Clint's mood.

"Maybe we should play along," Philip suggested as they worked their way down the incline, staying on the trail to avoid stepping in a hole. The sun had gone down, all but a thin ribbon red quickly fading on the western horizon. Casting long shadows, the mountains hovered, a dark presence to the North. "Be angry with each other and give him the opening he's looking for. Maybe he'll reveal what he wants."

"Natasha is better at that than I am." Clint could see the point Philip was making. Much as he didn't like the idea, it had merit. "But I think I've had enough practice today to make it work."

When Philip's hand slipped away, the music muted, and the evening seemed to cool. The torches lit circled the stage, flames lighting the benches and chairs in the first few rows. Two seats were left open for them, front and center. Townspeople and holders mixed together, families with their children on the ground and some budding couples towards the back where brushes of fingers could go unnoticed. Carol and Jessica were seated with Sif on Loki's left; at the Prince's right, Mayor Garrett was talking with animated gestures, pointing out various people as he talked. With an unspoken agreement, Clint turned his back on Philip and made his way towards his seat, not waiting to see if Philip followed. Loki's eyes tracked them as they moved, cataloguing the way Clint shuttered his face and smiled for everyone but Philip. Carol frowned and nudged Jessica; further back in the audience, Clint saw Natasha raise her eyebrow. He coughed once, just cleared his throat with his hand over his mouth, and she went back to her conversation, message received. A few more discrete coughs, and Carol and Jessica understood as well.

Holding his body tense, Clint took his place, Philip sitting down next to him. When he got angry, Clint didn't get loud or abusive; he'd seen the effects of losing control, flying fists and hastily hidden bruises. No, Clint grew distant, settling into a stillness that could be unnerving. He went there now, speaking to the Troop, nodding to Loki as he gave the go ahead to begin while ignoring Philip completely. It was easy enough once the Players began their first offering, a light-hearted comedy about an elderly carpenter, his voluptuous younger wife, and the lusty student renter in their home. A perfect choice to go with the full stomachs and casks of ale that had been consumed; as the short tale wound to its hilarious conclusion with red hot pokers, bare asses, and screams of "Fire!", Clint wanted to relax and laugh along with everyone else, but he had to work to not lean into Philip's warmth and enjoy this, the celebration of a harvest that was more than bountiful. The whole Hold was coming back to life despite the push of winter coming on; the roar of mirth that followed the player dressed as the old husband was chased off the stage spoke volumes about the people's morale.

A second short play followed the first, a romance of two knights vying for a beautiful maiden's love; Clint found it a little more tedious, never one for the professions of undying affection even when the young woman playing Emily camped it up, tittering behind her fan at the over-the-top deeds of strength presented to her. The audience found it highly entertaining; Clint saw Leo Huskey clapping enthusiastically as the scene ended.

"And for the main attraction, by special request, we present to you a tale rife with adventure, intrigue, romance, and action galore! Sword fights and love! Villains and heroes! Damsels in distress! Ladies and gentlemen, sit back and prepare for the excitement that is _The Archer and the Pirate_!"

Philip stiffened and sucked in a quick breath; the magic stirred, and Clint felt it jump between them, energy arcing from their hands where they rested close to each other. He'd forgotten Lady Sif's conversation earlier about those damnable stories and how Philip had been aware of them. His husband knew, had probably known before the marriage. That was why Fury agreed to the arrangement - to get the Archer and the Widow and the Captain and the Spider. He didn't have to fake his discomfort as he began to wonder if Philip was drawn to him, Clint Barton, or to the character of those exaggerations?

"It wasn't me," Philip whispered; the lightest brush of fingers against Clint's knuckles set off a wave of music that was so loud Clint was sure others must have heard it. He resisted the urge to look at Philip, staring at the stage as an actor swung down from the top of the wagon, tight black pants and billowy white shirt half-unlaced. An impractical costume for an archer, some logical part of Clint's brain noted, the material sure to get caught in the string. Yet, from the appreciative sounds from the ladies, it was quite affective.

"You knew." Clint was well-versed in hiding his mouth when he spoke; his lip-reading skills had gotten a lot of practice when he'd been deafened for a short while by a canon that exploded too early. On stage, swords clashed in a carefully choreographed dance, clicking almost in rhythm with the tune circling under his skin. Red scarves served as blood when the hero slashed the first of what would be many and varied foes.

"This is my favorite." Philip shifted his body and bumped his knee into Clint's leg. It took a second for Clint to remember Philip's fantasy about a captured pirate and a navy captain? In the story, it was the Archer in chains on a pirate ship, but Clint could see the parallels. That should annoy him; he hated the reputation and all the overwrought emotion that went along with being turned into a legend by bards. But his reaction was the opposite. He remembered Phil's skin under his fingers and the way Phil clenched around him, and his cock stirred at the very idea Philip had been thinking of him for years. Torn between doubt and desire, Clint tried to let the play distract him, but Philip was too close for Clint to clear his mind. Wanting to touch, Clint gripped the edge of the bench to give his fingers something to do.

When the scene arrived, the Archer with fake manacles on his wrists and chained to a pole, the vibrations from Philip grew in intensity and echoed through Clint. The pirate captain was played with panache by a rather tall actor with a shock of dark hair tied with a colorful swath of silk; he spouted the far too-dramatic speech with an island accent close enough to be real. Every time Clint heard this part, he always wanted to laugh; in the true story, the captain turned out to be a poker player who took Clint for a hefty amount of silver. But now he watched through Philip's eyes, and the dialogue was layered with innuendo, the usual threats sounding more like propositions. Suddenly warm despite the fall evening, Clint tried to contain the coil of energy that was tightening in his chest

Philip broke first; he turned his head, eyes dark shadows in the torchlight, and leaned forward a little to give the Prince a clear view. "I'm sorry," he murmured then he moved his hand over Clint's. Lust, rueful regret, and a bit of embarrassment all clashed together. Clint should pull away, continue the ruse, but breaking the chord that was ringing in his head was harder than he thought. He wanted to fall into that easy comfort. Instead, he settled for a curt nod and a hand squeeze.

"Son-of-a bitch gets the best lines," Clint mock complained as the pirate swirled his long coat with a flourish onstage. From the corner of his eye, he could see Loki chatting with Garrett, his attention flitting from the stage to the Mayor and then over to Clint. He tilted his head in the smallest of nod towards Clint.

Three more times, Philip's interest spiked; Clint filed away the specific scenes for later. Grounding through shifting touches – knees, hands, even elbows at one point – they kept the energy from discharging as Philip reacted to the play. Then the players were taking their bows to thunderous applause, and the McCarters called for more ale, ready to drink the night away. Clint wanted to escape the center of attention for the quiet of the Manor, but Mayor Garrett waylaid him before he got more than a few steps from his seat. Philip had gone a different direction; Clint saw him duck away, joining Melinda and Rachel in the group headed back to the barrels. At least one of them had managed to avoid an extended interview.

"Clint! What a delightful evening. Philip stood our town in the highest regard." The Mayor went to loop his arm through Clint's, but Clint stepped to the side, hiding his move as a turn towards Loki and Sif who were approaching. "Come. Let's have an ale together to celebrate the return of prosperity."

"You're right. Lord Philip has done an excellent job," Clint agreed. He was about to launch into an excuse, claiming to be tired, but Loki beat him to it.

"Actually, I was hoping to impose upon Lord Barton further, if he'll let me. I find I am very tired from my journey and quite full from the exceptional dinner; would you escort us back to our tents? We brought the messenger pouch with us as we came. You probably wish to have it." Loki held out his elbow and Clint could find no way to turn down the request without dishonoring the Prince in front of the gathered people.

"Of course, your Highness." Clint looped his arm around Loki's loosely and gestured with his hand. "I would be delighted."

The Mayor looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. "Sleep well, Prince. Tomorrow will be a fine day."

Leading Loki away, Clint moved them out of the circle of bright light and into the shadows of the surrounding land. The location of the tents was not far, but enough of a journey for a conversation, one Clint was determined not to start. Let the Prince make the first move.

"I admit to not being entirely truthful," Loki began. Clint tilted his head and looked up at the taller man. "I am not all that tired, but I wished a word with you in relative private. Your good Mayor is certainly a talker."

"Yes, that about sums Garrett up," Clint cautiously agreed.

"I must apologize if I caused any trouble earlier," Loki said. "With you and Philip. Things seemed tense."

"'Tis nothing, truly." Clint brushed off Loki's concern. "As you know, ours is a new marriage. We are still learning each other's ways. Just a misunderstanding."

"Ah, good!" Loki seemed truly glad. "There seems to be such a palpable affinity between you that is seldom seen in these days." Clint didn't have an answer for that, so he kept silent, watching the ground as he walked. He doubted Loki was finished. "In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw such compatibility in a marriage. Certainly not my parents whose arguments shake the very foundations of the castle. My father is very good at issuing orders that my Mother refuses to obey. Sif, do you know of any? You are much more attuned to happiness than I am."

"I know not what you would consider a happy marriage. The King and Queen are powerful in their own rights and have many children. That could be considered compatible," was Sif's diplomatic answer. The practiced ease with which she spoke told Clint this was not the first time the two had engaged in this type of verbal sparring.

"Ah, but you do so love a good romance. Like the play tonight with the two gallant knights," Loki teased. For the first time, Clint saw a softening in the Prince's face as his eyes found Sif in the darkness. "Or even better yet, two warriors who fall in love as they perform great feats of strength and cunning, that one about the woman … what is her name … oh, yes, Britomart."

"You know I do. But those are fiction, my Prince. Unions in real life are seldom as dramatic or simple."

"And you, Clint … may I call you Clint? … surely you know how unusual you are? The Archer and the Steward brought together by the vagaries of fate? Such a tale that would make!" Loki said. Clint wasn't sure if he was teasing or making a subtle stab at them; most likely, his purpose was both.

"A tale of repairing roofs and small Harvest festivals? Hardly exciting enough to keep anyone awake." Clint intentionally didn't mention the use of that silly name.

They came to a stop in front of a large silk tent, green and gold; another tent just behind was almost as large, then three mid-sized and two small ones made up the rest of the encampment. A young man stepped through the flap and bowed low. "Your bath is prepared, your Highness, as is yours Lady Sif."

"Thank you, Bernerd," Sif replied. "Please bring the pouch for Lord Barton." The servant ducked in and was back in just moments, passing the mail over to Clint.

"I think you do yourself a disservice," Loki said. "A fight with mythical creatures and a bandit attack? All the story is lacking is a dark villain and a moment of great sacrifice."

Loki slipped his arm free from Clint's; instead he rested his hand on Clint's bicep, just above the spot where Philip had marked him. A shiver of cold flowed from the spot, a chill that rose to Clint's shoulders then his neck and then the base of his skull. Like someone dragging their fingers over the strings of a lute without any tune, a shower of notes clashed in Clint's head, and he recognized it as magic, a different kind entirely from either his own or Philip's. This magic wanted to change Clint, overtake his own melody and replace it with another. If he tried, he could hear snatches of phrases, high and distant, like the wind whipping across the mountains and bringing a winter snow. Icy tendrils curled towards his hand only to be met by a flare of heat from Philip's mark, burning away the cold.

"A couple of large animals and a few hungry thieves, that's all it was." It took all his focus to not react; he could feel the static between his fingertips, but he held it in. "Although I thank you for the compliment."

"We shall agree to disagree on that point." Loki removed his hand and immediately Clint's body temperature rose. "Until the morning then. I hear I must try a pasty … I believe that's what your Mayor called it."

"Good night, your Highness." Clint bowed his head for what he hoped was the last time tonight and waited until Loki had entered the tent. Sif smiled at him, but didn't speak as she went to the second tent. Alone, Clint headed back to the manor, mulling over the evening's events. So Loki knew of the two attacks, but he had not mentioned the search. That, Clint suspected, Loki was reserving for tomorrow's interrogations. Death by a thousand tiny cuts, as an old friend of Clint's used to say. Loki was going to keep working on both Clint and Philip to see how much they'd bleed. Clint wished he knew exactly why and what Loki hoped to accomplish, but that was beyond him in his tired state. Then there was Bruce. New revelations about him were unsettling. For such a small Hold, there were certainly more than a fair number of people who knew about and had some kind of magic.

Entering through the kitchen door, Clint found Dax in the quiet room, setting out ingredients for the morning, leaving pork to marinate in the ice box. The dark-skinned man scowled Clint's way as he shut the wooden door and locked it closed, but he didn't say a word. Of course, others were there and had seen Clint's behavior; in their eyes, Clint had been short with Philip and then walked off arm and arm with Loki.

"Good night," Clint said, casual and easy.

"For some," Dax replied.

He should have known there'd be more; waiting in the hallway, Annamarie had her hands on her hips, a fire in her eyes that was familiar to Clint. A talking to, that's what she called the little speeches she'd given even as a young girl.

"Philip's in the study, working. You need to hie your ass that way and apologize for being a simpleton." She bit off each word, anger laced through them. "You can pretend to be upset all you like for the royal, but he doesn't have some hidden agenda other than to make this place right for us."

"Good Lord, woman, don't you ever sleep? I take it back. You're not scary. You're psychic or something." How did she know what he had just been thinking? A sneaking suspicion rose in his head … did everyone here have some sort of abilities?

"I just know you, Clint Barton. You think everyone's out to hurt you or those you care about. I was there, remember? Not everyone is your father or your brother." She didn't waiver when she said it, walking right into the topic Clint refused to discuss with anyone else. "Philip is a good man; go make him feel like he's part of this family and not some interloper you're having sex with."

"One day you're going to go too far," Clint warned her even though he knew she never really would. Experience gave her the right to speak of Clint's past. She was right; she had been part of it all. "And, yes, I'm going to talk to him."

"Clint." She dropped her hands and her voice to a quiet murmur. "For what it's worth, I trust Philip. Just like I trust you."

He needed to hear that, especially from her. She'd tried to talk him out of leaving that night so long ago, had argued there were other options beside running away. When that didn't work, she'd said she would come with him, a generous offer when Clint knew she loved her family and really didn't want to go. Then her father had died in a riding accident and her mother during the fighting, and Clint wasn't here to help her or to fight alongside those who defended the manor and town. For Annamarie to trust him meant he might just have a chance at truly being Lord Barton after all. Assuming he didn't make too many mistakes.

The door to the study was cracked; Clint pushed it open to see Philip, head bent, hair falling over his eyes, flipping through an old book under the light of a single oil lamp. He was so intent on what he was reading that he didn't notice Clint in the doorway. The stillness was almost complete, just the occasional pop from the slowly dying fire and the drag of vellum across Philip's sleeve as he turned a page. Leaning against the jamb, Clint watched the play of light in the brown locks, the way Philip crinkled his brow when he became intent on a passage, and the motion of Phil's fingers running absently along the edge of the paper. For once, there was no rush of music or rising energy; this was entirely different, a quiet calm where his brain settled, letting go of all the doubts and might haves, should haves, need tos that cluttered his thoughts. He just was, nothing more. Relaxing into the moment, he felt lighter, his chest not as tight, and his breathing slowed. Even the manor was hushed, a state usually reserved for the dark hours before dawn; everyone was either abed or out drinking. Time passed and Clint lost count of the seconds slipping away. Philip's concentration was total; Clint could have spoken but that would break the spell.

Eyes narrowing, Philip bent further and ran his finger along a line of print for a second time; his lips moved slightly as if he was parsing every phrase. "That makes no sense," he said to himself.

"Maybe a second opinion would help?" Clint spoke softly, but Philip didn't startle as expected.

"I wondered when you were going to say something." He looked up with a smile. "Come look at this. After what happened with Bruce today, I remembered a passage I'd read about symbiotic magic. This isn't the one I was thinking of, but it's still interesting, assuming I'm reading it right."

Clint crossed to the desk and leaned over Philip's shoulder, balancing his weight with his hand on the edge. He was close enough to exhale and stir Philip's hair as he tried to decipher the spidery script on the page.

… _when than the dayes of tribulation came doune from the Northe, Lorde and Thane withedrew power to share amoungst themselves, weake to stronge, swyrd to wyrd. In tyme, alle were more, magyck makeing courage deepe within the walls of the darke cavern of sorrows._

"Sharing power?" Clint asked, only half-sure of the translation. "What does seward to weird mean? And the dark cave of sorrows?"

"That's sword to word. The text is talking about sharing magical power to weak, strong, fighters, and scribes. I have no idea about the cave of sorrows. But the idea of drawing power from other magics? That's a possible answer for what's happening to us and with Bruce." Philip flipped the page. "Too bad it's just a fragment from an older story by a writer called Osswhed. I need to go through the books in the workshop and see if I can find more."

"In the morning. We have a long day tomorrow and Loki specifically asked for some private conversation with you, so you'll need your rest." Clint reached out and took Philip's hands in his. Just the mention of the Prince's name stiffened Philip's spine; they'd both forgotten for a while the trouble camped out literally on their doorstep. Clearly, Philip wanted to ask what Clint had talked about with Loki, but he rose instead, bumping Clint back as he stepped around the desk.

"I could use some sleep. I need to be up before first light to help Annamarie. She's making pasties for virtually the whole town, and Sam should be back late tonight, according to Luke. We should see what he learned on his swing north." Neatly reshelving the book in its spot, Philip hesitated at the doorway. "Are you coming as well?"

It was an opening, enough for Clint to know that Philip wasn't angry as much as he was worried. "Yes, I am. I have a feeling I'm going to need to be rested and ready tomorrow. Loki's hard enough to fathom when I'm at my best."

The trip to their room was uneventful; they saw no one else but William who was slumped in a chair outside the Main Hall, the unlucky page who had to stay available until everyone had retired for the night. A fresh pitcher of water, clean hand towels and two still warm mugs of hot chocolate waited on the table, courtesy of Annamarie.

"That woman has eyes in the back of her head," Clint muttered.

"You do know she's a psychic?" Philip asked. "Not mind reading, but more like pattern seeing. She can predict what people are going to do based upon their pattern of actions. Puts her in the right place at the right time to be of use. Very handy for a chatelaine. The Head of Chambers for the Queen has the same gift, although not as strongly as Annamarie."

Stopping in place, Clint stared at Philip. "Is everyone around here some kind of mage?" His voice was plaintive, and he winced slightly at the sound.

"Gifts are not unusual, but it's rare how many people here have very strong ones. Not magic, Clint, but abilities beyond the norm. Annamarie's foresight isn't unheard of just not to that extent. Carol's strength and leadership, Jessica's empathy and flexibility, even Natasha's subterfuge and reflexes – all of these are known in small doses but not the level and combinations they have. Only you and I can technically be considered magic users, and yours is very targeted, so much so as to seem a skill." Philip explained; he picked up a mug and handed it to Clint before taking up his own.

"Targeted? A good pun." Clint sipped the thick liquid; it was sweet and good and just the right temperature. A chill was still in his bones; he walked to the fireplace to warm up. "And you think perhaps this is because of … what did you call it? Not sharing, but something else."

"Symbiotic. When two things are closely related and rely upon each other. Or in this case, more than two." He shook his head. "But it's unheard of in any text I've ever consulted. In all the legends, magic is individual. Lords had a mage in their retinue, but the other Thanes were skilled with strong gifts. Magic was unique and rare. Even in the stories of the Bonded, only one would be a mage, if either were at all. Most had only the magic of their union."

"Unique. So magic can take any form? Perhaps cold like ice?" Clint asked.

"Yes. There was a famous sorcerer, the Trickster, whose spells felt like …." Philip stared at him. "Loki? He touched you?"

"After I escorted him back, he put his hand on my arm and I felt the cold crawl all over. I think he tried something, but your mark burned hot and drove the ice back." Clint shivered just thinking about it.

"My mark? My mark." Philip's eyes went wide, and he stumbled back a step before sitting down heavily in the chair. Leaving his mug on the table, he rubbed his temples with both hands. "My mark. Your mark. Gods in the heavens."

"Phil," Clint asked. "What?"

"The claiming. Using magic to lay a claim to someone or something. It's in all the stories; sorcerers do it to make minions obey them. Mages can use it to offer protection. Like an oath or promise but often described like a branding." Philip was agitated, closing his eyes then opening them again as he tried to explain. "If Loki tried to work some magic on you, and my mark repelled him, he'll know it. Either he'll think you're a mage or that someone else is. Fuck."

Clint had never heard Philip utter a curse word the whole time he'd known him; this was the first. "When you say claiming, you mean like saying I own you or that you're mine, no one else's?"

That loaded question fell into the room; Philip's hand clenched on the arms of the chair and power flared to life. "You heard it. Tonight. When you kissed me. After all, you were laying claim in front of everyone."

"At the practice field, you were the first. It's what you wanted, to have the Archer all for you own. Is that why you came here?" As soon as he asked the question, Clint wanted to take it back, to bury the neediness that echoed in the phrase.

"No." Philip answer came quickly then he paused, looked hard at Clint, and sighed. "Yes. Maybe. I don't know. I swear that I knew nothing of this marriage until the day Nick came home and told me about Loki's proposal and his counterplan to create an alliance with you."

"Fury wanted this, so you wanted it." A bald statement that Philip couldn't deny.

"I did what my Lord commanded, yes. And he told me he suspected who you are." Philip rose from the chair. "But wanting the Archer? That was all me. I'm the one who lay awake at night using those stories to help me satisfy my solitary desires."

"Solitary desires?" Clint couldn't believe that. "With some hero from an embellished tale for your imagination? Gods, Philip, I'm not sure which is worse. That you neglected to tell me you already knew my secrets or that you came here to find your fantasy man."

"I know the difference between fantasy and real life, Clint. Those are just stories, damn it, not the truth," Philip shot back. "And, yes, I worried before I arrived that my attraction to the fictional character would affect our relationship. But now I know you, and I can safely say that I much prefer you to the Archer."

"Well, that's good because I'm what you're stuck with." Clint knew that Philip's words should reassure him, but he still didn't believe it. Finishing his drink, Clint sat the mug down and started unbuttoning his new vest, the one Philip had gotten him that looked so good. Clint was confused; Loki's insinuations about trust weren't all that far off the mark. "You can report back to Fury that I'm going to do whatever I need to in order to protect my people. You don't have to watch me to make sure."

"You think that I'm here to watch you?" Philip sounded hurt. "I'm not Fury's thane anymore, not since the minute I signed that contract. I'm your husband and these are my people too. Everything I've done has been with their good in mind. Whatever Loki said to you, Clint, this is what he wants, to drive a wedge between us."

"I know." He did. He understood Loki more than he understood his own husband. Loki had an agenda; he wanted something from them. Information, revenge, or just to cause trouble, Loki had one goal in mind. The problem was Clint didn't know what Philip's agenda was. "Honestly, I do. It's just that I'm not a trusting person. And my life has turned upside down far too fast for comfort."

Philip nodded in response, accepting Clint's words as the last ones on the subject. Really, there was no argument; they both knew a month was not enough time to say beyond any doubt that they understood each other. So Clint tugged off his boots and prepared for bed in silence as Philip did the same. Crawling under the covers, Clint wondered if he was making a mistake that would cost him later. He hadn't know how much he desired someone to share his life with, someone who would work beside him, someone he wanted in his bed. His pattern, it seemed, was to have a glimpse at how good things could be just before he did something to destroy it.

The bed sagged, rushes crackling as Philip sat down, blew out the light, and laid back. Careful to not touch, he rolled over, facing away from Clint and stilled. But Clint couldn't get comfortable; as if he had an invisible itch, he rolled one way, then the other, shifting his legs, plumping up his pillow all in an effort to get to sleep. He ended up on his back, staring at the ceiling, frustrated.

Philip rolled onto his back and hooked an ankle around Clint's, tangling their legs together. And, just like that, Clint relaxed, his muscles loosening and his brain slowing its endless recriminations. Turning on his side to face Philip, Clint rested a hand on Philip's stomach; the rise and fall soothed the last of Clint's anxieties. When Philip slipped his arm under Clint and drew him in, Clint went easily, burying his face into the curve of Philip's neck, releasing the last pent up breath he was holding and drifting off to sleep.

… _the cold was chasing him as he ran, walls of the cave collapsing around him, green cascading down and pooling at his feet. Philip was across the square, in Bruce's arms, dancing and laughing as the men with glowing blue eyes blocked Clint's way. He could hear the clang of steel against steel, the sounds of battle echoing in the dark; Philip's scream rang out and Clint stumbled, right into a pair of hands that caught him, pulling him up. _

"_I have need of you," Loki said, his brilliant blue eyes burning into Clint's consciousness as the ice formed in his veins, freeze him in place and locking him in a frigid prison. "For you, he will do anything."_


End file.
